The Third Macabre Megapack Read online

  Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFO

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

  THE MEGAPACK SERIES

  THE WALTZ, by Morris W. Gowen

  THREE AT TABLE, by W.W. Jacobs

  VERA, by Villiers de L’Isle-Adam

  A LOST DAY, by Edgar Fawcett

  METZENGERSTEIN, by Edgar Allan Poe

  A TRAGEDY OF HIGH EXPLOSIVES, by Brainard Gardner Smith

  THE LEGEND OF TCHI-NIU, by Lafcadio Hearn

  THE OUTGOING OF THE TIDE,[1] by John Buchan

  A STRANGE REUNION, by T. G. Atkinson

  A WORK OF ACCUSATION, by Harry How

  THE NIGHT WIRE, by H. F. Arnold

  THE ELIXIR OF LIFE, by Honoré de Balzac

  THE MIRROR, by Catulle Mendès

  THE WOMAN AND THE CAT, by Marcel Prevost

  A LEMON-TREE, by Ouida

  TWILIGHT ZONE, by Mary Keegan

  UNHALLOWED HOLIDAY, by O. M. Cabral

  THE ETERNITY OF FORMS, by Jack London

  WOLVERDEN TOWER, by Grant Allen

  THE MAGIC PHIAL, by J. Y. Ayerman

  THE HAUNTED MILL, by Jerome K. Jerome

  THE GROVE OF ASHTAROTH, by John Buchan

  THE WELL, by W. W. Jacobs

  THE OBLONG BOX, by Edgar Allan Poe

  DEATH AND THE WOMAN, by Gertrude Atherton

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  COPYRIGHT INFO

  The Third Macabre Megapack is copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC. Cover art copyright © 2014 by Innovari / Fotolia. All rights reserved.

  * * * *

  “The Waltz,” by Morris W. Gowen, originally appeared in All-Story, September 1913.

  “Three at Table,” by W.W. Jacobs, is taken from the collection The Lady of the Barge (1911).

  “Vera,” by Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, is taken from Cruel Tales (1901)

  “A Lost Day,” by Edgar Fawcett, is taken from Eleven Possible Cases (1891).

  “Metzengerstein,” by Edgar Allan Poe, was originally published in the Saturday Courier magazine in 1832.

  “A Tragedy of High Explosives,” by Brainard Gardner Smith, is taken from Eleven Possible Cases (1891).

  “The Legend of Tchi-Niu,” by Lafcadio Hearn, is taken from Some Chinese Ghosts (1887).

  “The Outgoing of the Tide,” by John Buchan, originally appeared in Atlantic Monthly, Vol. LXXXIX (1902).

  “A Strange Reunion,” by T. G. Atkinson, originally appeared in The Strand, April 1893.

  “A Work of Accusation,” by Harry How, originally appeared in The Strand, June 1893.

  “The Night Wire,” by H.F. Arnold, originally appeared in Weird Tales, September 1926.

  “The Elixir of Life,” by Honoré de Balzac is dated October, 1930 (Paris).

  “The Mirror,” by Catulle Mendès, and “The Woman and the Cat,” by Marcel Prevost, are taken from International Short Stories: French (1910).

  “A Lemon Tree,” by Ouida, is taken from A Rainy June and Other Stories (1905).

  “Twilight Zone,” by Mary Keegan, originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, August 19, 1916.

  “Unhallowed Holiday,” by O. M. Cabral, originally appeared in Weird Tales, September-October 1941.

  “The Eternity of Forms,” by Jack London, is taken from his collection The Turtles of Tasman (1916).

  “Wolverden Tower,” by Grant Allen, is taken from Twelve Tales: Select Stories (1900).

  “The Magic Phial,” by J.Y. Ayerman, is taken from Tales of Other Days (1830).

  “The Haunted Mill,” by Jerome K. Jerome, is taken from the collection Told After Supper (1891).

  “The Grove of Ashtaroth,” by John Buchan, is taken from the collection The Moon Endureth: Tales and Fancies (1912).

  “The Well,” by W.W. Jacobs, originally appeared in 1902.

  “Death and the Woman, by Gertrude Atherton, originally appeared in Vanity Fair (1892).

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

  Over the last year, our “Megapack” series of ebook anthologies has proved to be one of our most popular endeavors. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”

  The Megapacks (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt, Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!).

  A NOTE FOR KINDLE READERS

  The Kindle versions of our Megapacks employ active tables of contents for easy navigation…please look for one before writing reviews on Amazon that complain about the lack! (They are sometimes at the ends of ebooks, depending on your reader.)

  RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

  Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the Megapack series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

  Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

  TYPOS

  Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

  If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.

  —John Betancourt

  Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidepress.com

  THE MEGAPACK SERIES

  The Adventure Megapack

  The Baseball Megapack

  The Boys’ Adventure Megapack

  The Buffalo Bill Megapack

  The Christmas Megapack

  The Second Christmas Megapack

  The Classic American Short Story Megapack

  The Classic Humor Megapack

  The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack

  The Cowboy Megapack

  The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective Megapack

  The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack

  The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack

  The Detective Megapack

  The Father Brown Megapack

  The Ghost Story Megapack

  The Second Ghost Story Megapack

  The Third Ghost Story Megapack

  The Horror Megapack

  The Macabre Megapack

  The Second Macabre Megapack

  The Martian Megapack

  The Military Megapack

  The Mummy Megapack

  The First Mystery Megapack

  The Penny Parker Megapack

  The Pulp Fiction Megapack

  The Rover Boys Megapack

  The Science Fiction Megapack

  The Second Science Fiction Megapack

  The Third Science Fiction Megapack

  The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack

  The Fifth Science Fiction Megapack

  The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack

  The Penny Parker Megapack

  The Pinocchio Megapack

  The Steampunk Megapack

  The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack

  The Tom Swift Megapack

  The Vampire Megapack

  The Victorian Mystery Megapack

  The Werewolf Megapack

  The Western Megapack

  The Second Western Megapack

  The Wizard of Oz Megapack

  AUTHOR MEGAPACKS

  The Edward Bellamy Megapack


  The E.F. Benson Megapack

  The Second E.F. Benson Megapack

  The B.M. Bower Megapack

  The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack

  The Wilkie Collins Megapack

  The Philip K. Dick Megapack

  The Jacques Futrelle Megapack

  The Randall Garrett Megapack

  The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

  The G.A. Henty Megapack

  The M.R. James Megapack

  The Andre Norton Megapack

  The H. Beam Piper Megapack

  The Rafael Sabatini Megapack

  THE WALTZ, by Morris W. Gowen

  Toward the end of May, high up in an attic room of a tumble-down house in Paris, a young man stood at the open window. He held a violin and a bow. The last colors of a glorious sunset were fading away into night over the skyline of chimneys and black roofs.

  The room was littered by what was left of the musician’s worldly goodsv—very few, for that day a sale had taken place of his poor effects to satisfy the landlord’s demand for rent. All that remained were a few sheets of manuscript-music, a bed, a chair, and some cooking utensils.

  It was the end of hope, ambition, of all—complete failure having met the composer’s efforts.

  His face showed plainly his suffering for the past month or so. Thin, so as to be only skin and bone, it was of a terrible paleness.

  Only his eyes had fire in them. They were awful to see.

  His left hand grasped the neck of the violin tightly, and his eyes wandered about the bare room.

  Then, as the sky darkened, the first breath of summer crept in at the window. A warm south breeze so soft as to be barely felt, but bringing with it the first tidings of brighter days to those who had felt the long winter’s cold. It was the forewarner of gladness and sunshine.

  Unheedingly, the young man lifted the violin to his chin, and his right hand crossed the bow over the strings. He hesitated a minute; then cast a look at the sky, and with a bold sweep of the bow began to play.

  It was a waltz, throbbing with passion, full and harmonious. The sad notes of the bass strings in a minor key followed each other to the time, crying sadly like the lament of a lost soul far away.

  Ever changing in melody, the waltz carried in it the first four thrilling notes. They crossed, repeated; retreated, and returned.

  The first breath of summer caught these notes, carried them out of the attic window over the smoky roofs of Paris, held them, played with them, sent them to the wondering ears of other poor people who lived in attics and in lodgings near by. Women stopped sewing. Children ceased playing. Men dropped their forks and, leaving their evening’s meal, crept on tiptoe to the open windows and listened.

  Suddenly the music grew louder, more intense, and the time quickened to madness. Then four long-drawn notes, the same as at the beginning, rang out, and—silence fell.

  As the last note was sounded the composer fell dead from the intense effort and the past months of starvation.

  The little summer breeze carried with it his grand composition and his soul.

  * * * *

  A man sat in an office before a richly carved desk. He was a plain-looking business man, fat, in a white waistcoat. Before him on the desk lay much money.

  His fat hands, sparkling with valuable rings, gathered up the crisp notes and slipped them into rubber bands, assembling them into packets of ten-thousands. He then got up and carried these packets to a large safe set into the wall of the office, placed them in a drawer, and locked the safe, sighing when he had done, like a person does after lifting a heavy weight.

  He then switched on the light and threw open the big office window, looking out onto a busy square filled by hurrying people and vehicles.

  He stood at the window some minutes, following with his cunning small eyes the figure of a smart little woman whose figure interested him. As he tried to keep her in sight while she crossed the square the summer breeze crept into the office, touching his cheek with its warm caress.

  It held music in its impalpable vapor—that heartrending waltz with its deep chords and simple harmony leading up to the fantastic finale, infernal in its throbbing recklessness and the four simple notes of its sudden ending.

  The banker drew his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, his hand trembling. A chill passed over him.

  He hastily closed the window and then sank into a chair. He felt unnerved and weak. His eyes wandered about the office in a troubled way. He grasped the arms of the chair tightly as his gaze became fixed in the direction of the locked safe.

  As he did so, the music again caught his ear, holding him breathless in his eagerness not to miss a single note.

  The music had full possession of him. It held him in its cruelly irresistible power while, standing before the safe, he saw a poorly clad figure holding a violin to its chin, its pale face looking upward, its right arm swinging the bow.

  The figure was no ghost in the banker’s eyes. To him it lived. He could see the bow swing back and forth, and his left foot beat time almost imperceptibly.

  He saw the aristocratic profile of the player, as clearly cut as a cameo. The neck and profile brought a vague, far-off memory to the banker.

  He was young again. Very young, at his father’s country-place. In his mind he saw the old trees, the lawns, and moonlight nights of June. He saw Lucille, the farmer’s daughter, as she crept in her pretty, bare, white feet over the moonlit grass to meet him under the shadow of the oaks.

  He remembered his father’s anger, the hurried departure, the long sea voyage to foreign lands. The return, and the news of Lucille’s trouble and death.

  As the music got hold of his heart, these visions became so clear that while the violin sighed, he lived again all that summer of love and passion.

  He rose to his feet, trembling; for in that white neck and pure profile he recognized his own flesh and blood.

  The waltz was drawing near the end.

  As the last four notes filled the office with their magic harmony, the banker held his arms out toward the figure and cried, his voice full of longing:

  “Speak! Speak! My son!”

  But it was too late.

  As the last note left the ghostly violin, the figure of the player vanished.

  THREE AT TABLE, by W.W. Jacobs

  The talk in the coffee-room had been of ghosts and apparitions, and nearly everybody present had contributed his mite to the stock of information upon a hazy and somewhat thread-bare subject. Opinions ranged from rank incredulity to childlike faith, one believer going so far as to denounce unbelief as impious, with a reference to the Witch of Endor, which was somewhat marred by being complicated in an inexplicable fashion with the story of Jonah.

  “Talking of Jonah,” he said solemnly, with a happy disregard of the fact that he had declined to answer several eager questions put to him on the subject, “look at the strange tales sailors tell us.”

  “I wouldn’t advise you to believe all those,” said a bluff, clean-shaven man, who had been listening without speaking much. “You see when a sailor gets ashore he’s expected to have something to tell, and his friends would be rather disappointed if he had not.”

  “It’s a well-known fact,” interrupted the first speaker firmly, “that sailors are very prone to see visions.”

  “They are,” said the other dryly, “they generally see them in pairs, and the shock to the nervous system frequently causes headache next morning.”

  “You never saw anything yourself?” suggested an unbeliever.

  “Man and boy,” said the other, “I’ve been at sea thirty years, and the only unpleasant incident of that kind occurred in a quiet English countryside.”

  “And that?” said another man.

  “I was a young man at the time,” said the narrator, drawing at his pipe and glancing good-humouredly at the company. “I, had just come back from China, and my own people being away I went down into the country to invite myself
to stay with an uncle. When I got down to the place I found it closed and the family in the South of France; but as they were due back in a couple of days I decided to put up at the Royal George, a very decent inn, and await their return.

  “The first day I passed well enough; but in the evening the dulness of the rambling old place, in which I was the only visitor, began to weigh upon my spirits, and the next morning after a late breakfast I set out with the intention of having a brisk day’s walk.

  “I started off in excellent spirits, for the day was bright and frosty, with a powdering of snow on the iron-bound roads and nipped hedges, and the country had to me all the charm of novelty. It was certainly flat, but there was plenty of timber, and the villages through which I passed were old and picturesque.

  “I lunched luxuriously on bread and cheese and beer in the bar of a small inn, and resolved to go a little further before turning back. When at length I found I had gone far enough, I turned up a lane at right angles to the road I was passing, and resolved to find my way back by another route. It is a long lane that has no turning, but this had several, each of which had turnings of its own, which generally led, as I found by trying two or three of them, into the open marshes. Then, tired of lanes, I resolved to rely upon the small compass which hung from my watch chain and go across country home.

  “I had got well into the marshes when a white fog, which had been for some time hovering round the edge of the ditches, began gradually to spread. There was no escaping it, but by aid of my compass I was saved from making a circular tour and fell instead into frozen ditches or stumbled over roots in the grass. I kept my course, however, until at four o’clock, when night was coming rapidly up to lend a hand to the fog, I was fain to confess myself lost.

  “The compass was now no good to me, and I wandered about miserably, occasionally giving a shout on the chance of being heard by some passing shepherd or farmhand. At length by great good luck I found my feet on a rough road driven through the marshes, and by walking slowly and tapping with my stick managed to keep to it. I had followed it for some distance when I heard footsteps approaching me.

  “We stopped as we met, and the new arrival, a sturdy-looking countryman, hearing of my plight, walked back with me for nearly a mile, and putting me on to a road gave me minute instructions how to reach a village some three miles distant.