The Desolate Presence, and Other Uncanny Stories by Thomas Owen

Author:Thomas Owen [Owen, Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror Tales; English, Horror Tales; French, Fiction, Horror, Short Stories (Single Author)
ISBN: 9780718305161
Google: rn3xAAAAMAAJ
Publisher: W. Kimber
Published: 1984-05-14T22:00:00+00:00

The landlady led him outside. Following in her footsteps he crossed an unevenly paved courtyard in the direction of the farm buildings, barely distinguishable in the darkness.

He felt an electric torch slipped into his hand.

‘The battery’s low,’ the woman said. ‘Don’t waste it.’

He flipped the switch; a disc of luminosity pierced the darkness and played momentarily over the building.

‘It’s there. Now I’ll be leaving you.'

He would have liked to have asked her to stay, but already she was out of sight. He heard her running in the pitch darkness, then entering the house, the door of which, opening for an instant, made a chink of light in the surrounding gloom.

He made his way towards a sort of barn with lime-washed walls, the entrance to which opened under a great, black espalier tree. Inside was a storeplace of some kind; he could distinguish a ladder hanging against the wall, some barrels, some empty bottles, some tubs, a garden hose - and even a woman’s bicycle.

In the background, a low door. The pigsty no doubt. He lifted a latch and pushed the door gently.

A blast of pigsty-smell hit him in the face and the beam of his lamp, penetrating the shadowy depths of the place, revealed on the blond straw-heap a pale and pink mass which, at first, he had trouble in making out. Soon, though, he was obliged to credit the evidence of his senses. There, lying curled up, was a naked woman, ageless, with a mop of blonde hair, heavy, fat shoulders and a great, soft backside. She was sleeping deeply and there was a pathetic quality about her powerful and regular breathing.

Arthur Crowley remained for a long moment staring at her, stupefied and nauseated. An unease, an indefinable feeling of embarrassment took hold of him.

Disturbed in her sleep by the harsh light, the woman stretched, grunted, made as if to turn over...

Demoralised, he extinguished the torch and beat a retreat.

Who was this waif? What was she doing here? What abominable contemplations filled her mind? How was such a thing possible?

He retraced his steps, shamefaced and thoughtful; and, when he entered the bar, they all scanned his face for any signs of his emotion.

‘That was quick! ’ said the landlady.

‘Was she sleeping?’ the redhead asked.

‘Did you make her get up on her feet?’ another asked. ‘There’s a stick with a point on it behind the door. They use it to poke her with. Then she gets up on her hands and knees.’

Humiliated and indignant, Arthur Crowley remained silent. He could not have spoken, even if he had wanted to. He turned his back on them.

‘Well then,’ another said, ‘you’ve missed the best part of the show.’

‘It’ll do for another time,’ said the landlady.

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