Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror - Chris Priestley [43]
Francis heard his father's calls but chose to ignore them. Whatever it was would have to wait. There was something about this urchin girl that intrigued him. People were seldom of any interest whatsoever to Francis, and yet this girl was different in some way.
Francis looked down and smiled at her and she smiled back: a wide smile, her lips parting, her mouth filled with shining white teeth. But they were the small, sharp teeth of a lizard.
Francis's body was lying on its back when Arthur reached it, one arm over his face as if to defend himself, a dark and cruel redness shimmering horribly at his throat. The thing that Arthur had chased away had dissolved into the heat haze: one moment animal, the next a girl, the next a woman, then an animal once more; then nothing at all.
Mr Weybridge stooped down and picked his son up and staggered back towards the village, humming gently to himself as he walked. The children who stood nearby parted to let him through, their heads bowed.
I took a deep breath, realising that I must have been holding my breath for some time and stood up a little more abruptly than I had intended. I walked back to where the drawing was hanging by the door.
'So this must be . . .' I began.
'Yes,.' said my uncle. 'That is the drawing Arthur was doing when Francis went to meet his fate. It was the last drawing Arthur ever did, actually. He blamed himself for Francis's death and punished himself by depriving himself of his only real pleasure in life.'
'How sad,.' I said.
'Indeed,.' said Uncle Montague.
As I looked back at the drawing I noticed something. Standing in the shadow of one of the buildings was a figure - a small figure dressed in rags.
I was about to call my uncle to point out this discovery, when a curious thing happened. The figure seemed to shimmer as if the ink were still wet and then ooze into the rest of the drawing.
I blinked, amazed at this illusion of the firelight, or my overheated imagination, or both, and stared long and hard, trying to tempt the drawing to change again, but of course it did not and I returned to my chair by the fire.
'Did you see her?' said my uncle, gazing into the flames.
'Who?' I said, looking back at the drawing.
'Never mind,.' said Uncle Montague. 'More tea?'
'Thank you, Uncle,.' I said, returning to my chair.
'When you said -'
'Have you no desire to travel, Edgar?' interrupted Uncle Montague.
'Of course, sir,.' I answered. 'I should like to travel very much.' Though the truth of it was, any desire I had previously entertained about visiting the land of the Turks had entirely evaporated. Just at that moment there was a noise above our heads, a noise that sounded like footsteps running from one corner of the room to the other.
I stared at the ceiling and Uncle Montague slowly did likewise. The sound of footsteps gave way to a shuffling, sliding sound, which seemed to centre on a rather large crack in the plaster.
'That noise, Uncle?' I said, still staring at the ceiling.
'It is an old house, Edgar,.' he said, looking into the fire. 'It is full of noises.'
'But surely there is someone up there, Uncle?' I said. 'Are you not curious to know who it is?'
'No,.' said Uncle Montague. 'No, I am not. I know who it is.'
I assumed by this comment that my uncle meant it was Franz, as of course it must have been. What is more, I had the distinct impression he was eavesdropping on our conversation. I even wondered if he could see us through that wide black crack in the plaster. My uncle seemed unconcerned and did not turn away from the fireplace.
'I wonder what he is doing up there,.' I mused.
Uncle Montague nodded in a thoughtful way. He seemed lost in looking at something on the mantelpiece. I followed his gaze and saw a small photograph. My uncle noticed my interest and handed the photograph to me.
I was surprised to find that it was a wedding photograph. It seemed rather sentimental for my uncle, and certainly