The Elemental by Ulric Daubeny
“The Elemental” is the title story from The Elemental: Tales of the Supernormal and the Inexplicable, first published in 1919 by George Routledge & Sons.
Readers who are familiar with Guy De Maupassant’s “The Horla” may find certain similarities between the two tales. “The Horla” was published two decades before “The Elemental” and quickly became a popular choice with fans of dark fiction, so Daubeny may have been familiar with it, and become inspired to pen a similar tale.
About Ulric Daubeny
Ulric Evan Daubeny (1888 — 1922) is an obscure British horror author many fans of the genre may not be familiar with. Information about him is lacking.
Daubeny only wrote one anthology of supernatural fiction—The Elemental: Tales of the Supernormal and the Inexplicable. He also wrote at least one other book called Ancient Cotswold Churches (1923), which he dedicated to his wife. The book contained pen and ink illustrations provided by Cecily Daubeny. Although Cecily may have been another family member, it seems likely she was his wife.
Daubney’s most successful work of fiction is “The Sumach“—a story about a vampire tree. It has been anthologized several times and was translated into Italian for the anthology IL Sangue e la Rosa (1988).
The Elemental
by Ulric Daubeny
(Online Text)
In publishing these extracts from the Diary of Mr Murcheson, until recently a prominent figure in athletic circles, a brief introduction may not be considered out of place.
Murcheson was an athlete not only born, but also very scientifically trained. While differing from the type that develops blood and bone at the expense of brain, it must be admitted that his mental endeavours were directed solely towards the quest of physical perfection. The doctrine of ‘Fitness’ was with him almost a religion; indeed, he states as his unalterable belief, that ‘A purity of body must necessarily imply a purity of mind and soul.’
Upright of principle, irreproachable in his private life, it follows as a natural sequence that his habits should have conformed equally to the Spartan: not only was every hour of his day rigidly mapped, but also of the night, which was spent in the garden of his peaceful home near Newnham, on the banks of the river Severn.
For such a man to plunge suddenly into the most unspeakable excesses, and in the space of a few weeks to bring himself to physical and moral wreckage, should in justice be ascribed to mental derangement, rather than to inherent vice. This, I regret to note, has not been done, and out of pity for the dead, I offer the following pages to the consideration of those who presume to judge him.
Only such portions of the Diary as seem to bear upon the strange delusions have been transcribed. Much is, of necessity omitted, especially towards the end, but in places it is possible to read between the lines, and perhaps those who yet so cruelly vilify his memory may develop in their hearts some measure of forgiveness, even if forgetfulness is still withheld.
The Diary
March 7th.
The tide was unusually high again last night. I awoke about one o’clock, with the same sensation of uneasiness that has come to me so frequently of late. This time it was less indefinite: a feeling of excitement vaguely apprehensive, of expectancy, of waiting—such a feeling as might be supposed to herald some terrific demonstration on the part of Nature.
Of course, it is easily explained. An extraordinary natural phenomenon was even then in progress, the great Tidal Wave of Severn, the Bore. I could hear it approaching in the distance, a dull, crescendo hiss, like the rushing of a mighty wind. To me, it is no new experience, not even when viewed by the uncertain starlight, for I have lived by it, slept by it in this very garden for nearly fifteen years; yet last night it stirred me strangely, and sent the blood pumping feverishly through my veins.
Sleep became impossible, so slipping into rubber boots and a heavy overcoat, I left the shelter, and made my way to the end of the garden, where a low wall and a shelving bank alone separated me from the sinuous eddyings of the river. The wind was eloquent of the storm-swept Bristol Channel, and in close pursuit hurried the muddy tide, shot up with incredible velocity by the occurrence of two ‘bottleneck’ contractions in the estuary, one at Sharpness, and the other above the treacherous Noose Sands, a mile or so below this house. A moment longer, and with a deafening roar the solid mass of water, towering half a fathom above the river, hove into view, its curving edge one endless wave of churning, slightly phosphorescent foam. Accompanying it came a shock of air, dank with chill and brine, and then another, and yet another seething layer, each one raising the tidal level nearer and nearer to my wall.
In the very middle of the turmoil, a most extraordinary notion took possession of me. Either I was dreaming, or the incessant swirling of the waters must have dazed my eyes, for I fancied that on the crest of the tide there rode a shadowy form, just faintly luminous, like some spirit of the secret ocean depths, whereon unknown monsters glide in shapeless and horrible obscenity. Swiftly forward it was borne upon the water, until it came level with the garden wall; then, although the tide went racing by, it paused, and I believed that this Thing, sensate and malignant, was gazing at me!
God! I cannot recollect what really happened, but it seemed as if the phantom began to move across the rushing waves, making a bee-line in my direction. I turned, and ran with all my speed towards the shelter, banging and bolting the door behind me, and slamming down the flimsy window. My terror gradually passed when I had slipped between the blankets, but my limbs continued to quake with damp and cold, and dawn was approaching before I felt inclined to sleep.
March 9th.
The weather has been less rough these last two nights, but I am still troubled by disturbing dreams. Never before, during all these years, has the change of tide, or rather the occurrence of the Bore, so affected me—for it is invariably about that time these dreams, or rather waking nightmares, occur. A week ago, I dismissed them without a thought; later, though increasingly vivid and alarming, I steadfastly ignored them; now—last night it was horrible. In my dreams I seemed menaced by some vague yet awful danger, and in great distress I started up from sleep, only to hear the retreating echoes of the Bore, as it followed its relentless passage towards Gloucester. A moment or two of wakefulness and, as normally happens, the sense of uneasiness began to pass, but last night there came an unexpected change, for suddenly my fears returned with a renewed intensity.
No doubt climatic conditions were responsible for this extraordinary development, for the atmosphere turned chillier, and the sea air, in pungent gusts, came wafted through the open window. Then the blankets and sheets grew heavy, as if weighed down with damp, and finally, stricken rigid by my growing sense of horror, I seemed to be covered by an icy, slimy Something, that felt like shifting mud. . . . Disgust and fear at last gave energy to my limbs, for I somehow scrambled out of bed, and after much fumbling around managed to obtain a light. By moving restlessly about my shelter for a while, the clammy suggestiveness of the sea grew less, and in proportion my presence of mind returned. Then once more I went to bed, and slept soundly until dawn.
March 10th.
Thank goodness for a full night’s rest, almost altogether free from dreams. Until quite recently I seldom dreamt, and I cannot recall a single instance of a frightening nightmare; so I hope that the spell at last is broken, and henceforth my nights are undisturbed.
Yesterday evening promising to be unusually boisterous, I decided to remain indoors. There have been years when I could sleep out all the Winter, but it must be unusually damp and cold just now—for at forty-four, I can hardly believe that I am suffering from approaching age! However, I shall sleep indoors for a while, in any case until the Spring gales and the ‘Palm Tides’ have passed.
March 13th.
Either my nerves are going to pieces, or—but I am obviously too much in training to be suffering from any physical complaint. Somehow I have felt disinclined to confide even in my Diary the last two days, buoyed by the hope that my troubles were about to disappear; but instead, the dreams, or whatever they may be, grow more vivid, seeming to develop, too, on reasonably progressive lines.
My first night spent indoors was practically undisturbed, but on the second I started up from some quite ghastly dream, to hear the Bore retreating in the distance. Then followed a recurrence, perhaps a thought less vivid, of my last waking nightmare in the shelter.
In the early hours of this morning the order of affairs was again repeated, but with details clearer, and the whole horror of the experience much intensified. My first few hours of sleep had been disturbed by the foreboding of a Something, inexpressibly, dangerous and malignant, which was striving to encompass me. When I awoke, it was to find the sheets and blankets cold and sodden, and the stench of seaweed, rather of sea creatures, strong within my nostrils. For some time I lay unable to shift hand or foot, while every moment the bedclothes became more clammy and oppressive, until at length they seemed imbued with a kind of movement, and I fancied myself lying beneath a layer of shifting, writhing jelly. Gradually, inch by inch, the glutinous horror spread, until it was level with my mouth and nose. In agonising gasps I fought for breath, and then, just as my lungs were almost bursting, I made a superhuman effort, dragging myself clear of the stifling embrace. Once out of bed, I immediately felt better, but even as I coaxed a flame into the wick of the spluttering candle, the clammy dampness struck against my feet, and with flaccid movements commenced to mount my shins. Letting drop the candle, I staggered blindly to the door, and then downstairs, where I found a fire still burning in the smoking room, so piling it up to the very chimney, I stayed there for the remainder of the night.
Can it be that the climate of Newnham is turning against me, after fifteen years? Foggy and damp it often is, but I have heard nobody complain, and this morning my bedding was quite dry, as I noticed on returning to my room to shave. Perhaps a change would do me good, for I have felt decidedly off colour the last few mornings, although my appetite is, if anything, healthier than usual.
March 14th.
I have slept in the smoking room, and feel more easy for the quieter night. Yesterday was foggy and depressing: something of the nightmare horror seemed to have entered into me, and when bedtime came, I was so reluctant to quit the cheerful smoking room that I decided to sit up for an extra hour. Naturally my head began to nod, and when consciousness returned, the clock told me that it was early morning. The air felt chill, for the fire was burning low, and although there was with me that clammy sensation which I have grown almost to expect on waking, yet I was aware of very little discomfort, and practically no alarm.
Presently, the Something that seemed to hold my body in its grasp began to slip from me like a garment, first leaving free my shoulders, then subsiding to the level of my knees, then to my feet, until it had disappeared, and with it the brackish odour of the sea. My hand shook, as I plied the tongs, and poked the fire into a blaze, but it was with curiosity and suppressed excitement rather than with fear.
I feel somewhat relaxed this morning, but as hungry as a hunter: this despite the fact that a similar gnawing sensation shortly before dawn embarked me on a foraging expedition, which resulted in an alfresco meal of sardines and cold chicken.
March 15th.
I have been the witness of an extraordinary occurrence, the memory of which fills me with disquietude, and a vague sense of dread. Strange to relate, at the time of happening, my feelings were merely those of intense interest, interest tinged with ironical amusement. . . .
Being more cheerful after my night spent in the smoking room, I decided to sleep there again, ensconced,with a dressing gown and bedroom slippers, in the big armchair. Teedles, the cat, had been particularly friendly all the evening, and my latest memory was a picture of him, coiled up comfortably upon my lap. Something was approaching, something was about to happen—that was the burden of my dreams, but they could not have been of long duration, for when I awoke the fire was still piled high, and burning brightly.
Apparently the cat disturbed me, for although still asleep upon my lap, he was twitching and grumbling uneasily. Almost at once I became aware of a strong and dreadful smell, a smell which has become familiar, and yet tonight seemed more distinct than ever before: pungent, beast-like, indescribably suggestive of some ocean cavern, dank and thick with slime of living creatures. Then there approached the usual, clammy moistness, creeping and ebbing ever nearer, until it struck with a sudden shock against my feet and coiled itself sinuously about my ankles. Teedles now commenced crying in his sleep, digging his claws deep in to my dressing gown, and twitching with uneasy violence. Suddenly he started up, ears flattened and every hair erect. I thought he intended to throw himself off my lap, but instead, with a choking snarl, he recoiled heavily backwards and in mad terror scrambled to my shoulder, and jumped onto the ground behind the chair. I heard the crash of the blind, as he shot out of the window, but after that my memory is uncertain. Perhaps I fell asleep for a while, but later I remember feeling very hungry, and after foraging in the larder, returned triumphantly with a beefsteak pie.
I feel tired today, doubtless owing to the disturbances of the night. Meanwhile, I must not allow my mind to dwell too freely upon what can be nothing more than empty dreams.
March 20th.
Little to report as to my health—meaning, of course, nightmares. I still sleep in the smoking room, and the dreams recur, but it has become a case of ‘Familiarity breeds Contempt’, for they no longer trouble me—save in the daytime, when their memory strikes me cold, and frightens my thoughts into different channels. My only physical symptom is a gradual loss of weight, and this although I am eating more than usual, and invariably wake up ravenous, in the early morning. Indeed, I have given instructions for a little food to be placed in the smoking room at night: sardines, cold chicken, and such-like to begin with, but once there was nothing in the house but a couple of uncooked chops, so I determined to toast those myself, before the fire. Since then I have fancied only chops or steaks. After all, it is red meat that feeds, and satisfies the appetite. The very thought of it makes me feel hungry. Yet—Good heavens! What talk for one who, a short while back, was almost a vegetarian!
March 25th.
My capacity for eating is extraordinary, particularly at night. I have bought a grid, so that when I awake in the early morning, I can cook my steak over the smoking room fire, and eat it piping hot. At first I warmed potato, or ate a little bread, but it seemed to choke me, so now I take my meat alone. A pound, a pound-and-a-half, last night it was two pounds, and not a scrap left! Still I continue to lose weight. It is almost unbelievable, and when I think of these things in my calmer moments, it is with nameless misgivings, and an awful fear. What is this that I feel is about to happen? What Thing can it be that comes in the silent hours of the night, and takes possession of me, forcing me to its foul will. . . .
March 26th.
I slammed together the pages of my Diary unblotted yesterday, vowing never to write there more. Vain questionings and rackings of the memory could lead but in one direction—or so it seemed to me—that of the lunatic asylum. Today my spirits are more buoyant, excited—almost cheerful, except for isolated moments of most gloomy blackness, when I dare not permit my thoughts to stray.
What decided me to return to my Diary, is the extraordinarily interesting experience of last night—an experience which, I feel, marks, not only the end, but also the beginning of a phase.
I slept as usual in the smoking room armchair, and towards morning awoke with the sensation of almost furious hunger which has become normal to me at such an hour. I sat dallying for some moments in joyful anticipation of my meal, when suddenly there came, from the darkest corner of the room, a hasty scuffling, followed by a piercing squeak. As I turned to look, Teedles came stalking into the zone of firelight, a live mouse dangling from his jaws.
Normally the spectacle would have filled me with repulsion, and I should have tried my best to rescue, or at least to put an end to the sufferings of the unhappy mouse. But last night it was different. I watched spellbound, prompted by a curious sympathy, almost a kinship with the feelings and the very nature of the cat. How glorious a sensation, to catch one’s food alive, to feel it struggling impotently between one’s jaws, to toy with it and torture it until the appetite grew keen, finally to kill it, the hot, living blood spurting upwards between one’s teeth. . . . Suddenly the bloodlust left me, and horror took its place, for as surely as I pen these words, I believe that my eyes could see a shapeless Something materialize at my very feet, and glide, like a vague, slightly phosphorescent shadow, across the room towards the cat. Teedles, in the act of cracking the mouse between his teeth, saw, or rather felt, for he wheeled swiftly round, and with a gasp of terror, let fall his twitching prey. Almost palsied by his fear, he shot across the room, and scrambled to the top of a high bookcase.
After that I have none too clear a recollection, but my horror presently deserted me, and once more there came a ravening hunger, together with a wild, unholy lust. . . . The cat’s lithe body fascinated me. I gloated on the sinuous ripple of the flesh beneath the skin. Trembling with excitement, I rose from my chair, and stealthily moved across the room, but the cat jumped down, and dodged at my approach. Then followed a wild scrambling and rushing in which chairs were sent flying and tables overturned. . . . Once I| actually caught the brute, scratching and tearing horribly, but even as I crouched above him, he managed to wriggle free, and with a desperate spring, tore his way up one of the curtains, and jumped through the top of the window.
As I watched him disappear, my excitement and my hunger passed, and gasping painfully for breath, I regained the armchair, and sank back into a dreamless sleep.
March 27th
Teedles, I hear, has not been near the house for two whole days. This afternoon, when walking in the shrubbery, he caught sight of me, but instead of cantering gaily forward, the poor brute fled as if in terror of his life. Merciful Heaven, what kind of a devil can I be becoming, that even my pet animals are afraid?
Yesterday, and again today, I have been troubled by my teeth, a dull aching in both the upper and the lower jaws. It is particularly uncomfortable when eating, and perhaps that is why I was so hungry, when I awoke in the early hours of this morning. My spirits were unusually high, almost jovial in fact, for although I felt encompassed by the usual clammy Something, yet it was less incommoding, less consciously present—as if I were becoming used to It, and It to me.
For several minutes I sat gazing at the uncooked steak, which was placed on its table near the fire, and the more I gazed, the more distasteful grew the anticipated smell and taste of roasting meat. . . . There was a loathsome mess when I awoke at six o’clock, luckily before the servants were about. The carpet was disarranged, and covered with dark stains, as if some wild beast had been worrying its prey there. Shreds and fragments of raw meat were scattered broadcast. After clearing away the debris, I repaired [1] to the bathroom, to have a wash. My own reflection in the mirror gave me a ghastly turn: all around my mouth and cheeks were hideous stains, like those upon a butcher’s hands. . . .
God! Even as I wrote, an acute spasm of pain about my jaws drew me hastily to the glass. Do my eyes deceive me, or can it indeed be true? My teeth somehow appear longer, more prominent—sharper, especially the canines. When I close my jaws, the lips are noticeably parted, giving me a wolfish look. . . .
April 10th.
In London.
A confidant of some kind man must have, and perhaps that is why I come back once more to write in my old Diary. When this gruesome complaint has left me, I shall be able to read over the details, to diagnose my symptoms, and to reassure my frightened memory that I was not really mad.
A fortnight must have elapsed since I came to London, driven from home by the questioning looks of servants; driven also by the nameless Something which possesses me, and which calls for freedom, and untrammelled opportunity to do that which I have not the power to resist. The days, and especially the nights have passed as if in some dreadful dream, with occasional lucid intervals following upon a temporary physical collapse. Now, weaker than I have ever felt before, I seem to have earned a brief period of rest. My mind is still in turmoil: partial memories come and in a flash are gone, while ever before me are the blurred reflections of most hideous deeds, the very nature of which it were impossible to confide to paper. Somewhere in the depths of London I have been in company with devils, surpassing all in my abominations, and making a name which must surely stink for as long as memory shall last.
There is one incident which, with ever-increasing vividness, returns to me. I believe that the agony which I saw graven on that girl’s innocent, tortured face will always be before my eyes, sleeping or awake. . . . Also her degradation serves to mark an epoch: a revelation of the extraordinary powers I possess, not merely over people who in themselves are prone to evil, but over the innocents, those childish, half-developed minds which, above all others, I have found susceptible to vile suggestion.
The incident in question occurred one evening while lounging in the Berlin restaurant, a place of resort which has been particularly useful to me as a stepping-off place for my nightly adventures. From the first, the fish tank was my great attraction, to stand by it watching the bestial faces of the diners— though now, and in all normal moments, the very memory of it fills me with a sense of indescribable pollution and disgust.
Briefly, the staging of the scene is this. In a kind of ante-chamber to the dining hall there stands a huge glass tank, full of crystal water, in which swim gleaming fish; this is set about with palms and rustic seats, after the manner of some beautiful aquarium. Here the would-be diner pauses, and by way of stimulating a surfeited appetite, may examine through the glass, and choose a trout, which the attendant adroitly catches in a little net. Within ten minutes the fish is served, crisp and frizzling on a plate—as bestial, and degrading a form of savagery as ever emanated from Prussian mind.
Here, one evening, in ignorance of the foreign beastliness that lay about them, came a young Englishman, just entering upon manhood, and on his arm a girl, obviously his fiancée, very young, very shy, probably straight from some quiet country village.
She gazed upon the brilliant scene in wonder and delight, the great glass fishpond naturally calling for particular attention.
‘Madame vill chooce her feesh?’ invited the attendant, with a leering glance.
Not understanding, she turned questioningly to her companion, who paused uneasily, as if he would not have her linger.
‘Madame vould like?
‘What does he mean, Harold?’
‘Oh, come away, Letty! Some beastly foreign trick.’
‘But what is it?’ she insisted, obstinately.
I was standing by the tank—and here let me say, that what I did was opposed to my most ardent wishes—the desire came to me, to bend her will to mine.
‘Madame vill chooce her feesh—for de grill?’
As I concentrated on her, I felt the devil enter, and saw her innocent blue eyes turn cruel and narrow. A moment’s hesitation, and she pointed eagerly at a splendid trout, heedless of her companion’s plucking hand.
‘That! That one! Catch it for me quickly—quickly!’
As it happened, the attendant, a bloated German brute, experienced unusual difficulty in securing that particular fish. It darted hither and thither about the tank, and for several seconds succeeded in avoiding the fatal net. All the while the face of the girl grew more intense, more cruel, more bestial, until at length the fish was drawn out of the aquarium, scattering drops of water in its efforts to be free. One step, two, and the girl had plunged her hand into the net, and drawn forth the wriggling fish.
That much could I make her do, but nothing further, for the thread seemed to grow weak and snap, while for a moment she gazed with growing horror at that which she held struggling in her hand. Then, with a piteous cry, her grasp relaxed, and she staggered backwards into her companion’s arms, unconscious.
Devil as I then was, the debasement of this good, pure girl pleased me beyond anything I had ever experienced. . . . Poor young people, a terrible memory that must ever be between them! And Heaven look with pity upon my soul, for this awful discovery of power but served as a cue for further abominations, at the recollection of which my memory reels. . . .
April 16th.
Weary almost unto death, I have managed to escape from London. Three days ago I arrived home, a scarcely recognisable shadow of my former self: eleven-stone-two, and my normal weight is nearer thirteen-seven! Good God! It strikes me cold to think of it! And as for appetite, gluttonous and depraved—but I dare not recall those awful memories. Sufficient to thank heaven for several peaceful nights, and a decent moderation after food: yet, every day a slight recovery of weight.
Never before have I experienced a serious illness, and now comes this paradox: the weaker, the more unwell my body, the healthier I feel in mind! My personal religion has always been based upon this favourite teaching: A purity of body must necessarily imply a purity of mind and soul, yet it almost seems as if my body had been suffering from an excess of health, or had prospered at the expense of what is me, my personal identity. . . . But the thought is too abstruse. My mind has never been trained to deal with such subtle problems. Plain common sense tells me to make my body pure and fit, and my mind will doubtless follow suit.
April 21st.
Felt so marvellously refreshed two mornings since, that I decided to try my wind, hounds being fixed to meet at Little Dean. Carpenter drove me over, and I followed on foot for about three miles, but was then absolutely at my last gasp, left behind at the entrance to a wood. Three weary miles—and many a time I have kept ahead of the best of them on a ten mile run! I pulled up beneath a gigantic oak, utterly blown, and heart thudding like a printing press.
Presently there came the sound of a distant tally-ho, and after a little while Reynard broke cover from the wood, closely followed by the pack. He made straight for my tree, and being hard pressed, somehow managed to jump and claw his way up the gnarled old trunk, and so into the upper branches. I had the sense to run, and a moment later, the hounds were swarming round the tree, tearing and scratching at the bark, and making ineffectual springs in the direction of their quarry.
Jove, I’ve never seen such a sight! I felt myself growing clammy with impatience and excitement. Almost immediately the Master, a more than ordinarily brutal type, hastened forward, swearing horribly, and ordered the huntsman to climb the tree. None too pleased at the task, the man scrambled warily into the hollow trunk, but he need not have feared, for the fox retreated hurriedly at his approach. Finally the wretched brute was driven along a spreading branch, near the extremity of which he crouched whimpering, the frenzied pack yelping and screaming immediately beneath.
‘Shoo him down! Shoo him down, damn you!’ roared the Master, furious at the delay.
‘Can’t get at him, Sir,’ the man answered nervously. ‘The branch won’t bear my weight.’
With a furious imprecation, the Master spurred forward, bringing his horse on to its haunches with a brutal jerk. He raised himself high upon the stirrups, and making a slip-knot in his crop, lassoed Reynard, and held him out, kicking and struggling above the seething pack. Then he laughed, a devil’s laugh, a laugh which seemed to stir some awful Beast within me. I met his glance, and recognised the bloodlust in his eyes. I edged nearer, eagerly bending forward in a greedy anticipation of the final act—the scream of terror, the struggling, worried mass, the smoking carcase. . . .
When I recovered consciousness, it was to find myself in a neighbouring farm house, a doctor standing near, making arrangements for my removal home. They said I had suddenly fallen senseless. . . . And now I dare not even pray to Heaven, I who was amongst those hounds, the strongest, fiercest, the most savage of them all: screaming wildly for my prey, tearing at the pungent fur, madly lusting after the taste of the living entrails. . . .
April 22nd.
Yesterday I could write no more. The memory was too much for me. At first it turned me sick, but later my feelings changed, and in imagination I lived through the whole bloody scene once more. . . . I am very ill and weak today, but somehow my outlook upon things is brighter, and more hopeful.
God! But what an idiot is the average medical practitioner! A pill or an operation, the alternative panacea for every ailment! Bishop, a decent fellow in his way, listened with a scarcely tolerant smile as I tried to tell him a little about my malady, about my dreams. He told me to put out my tongue, and promised he would send some tablets!
Last night there came a recurrence of the nightmare, but differing from the original type. I have felt intolerably restless towards tide ebb lately, starting up from sleep as if someone called, and I seem to hear the sucking noise of the wavelets in my very room. Then I cling in terror to the bed, to anything I can lay my hands on, rather than allow the black, oily waters to drag me down. It is a horrible sensation, but last night I awoke before that stage, feeling that I should like to take an airing in the garden.
Partially dressing, I went out, and sat for several minutes on the wall, watching the swiftly running current. There was a curious phosphorescence somewhere in the river, but it was difficult to locate, for the receding tide each moment wafted it farther from me. Straining my eyes, I gazed and gazed, and— suddenly found myself up to the waist in water. The shock recovered me at once, and I managed to drag myself clear of the sucking mud, and so, shivering and panting to my bedroom.
I cannot help thinking that my restlessness is due to lack of air. I never did feel anything but stifled when sleeping in a room, and as the repainting of my shelter is now completed, I shall move out there tomorrow night.
April 25th.
Petersham to see me this morning. Formerly he was my friend, but I find him to have become sodden in ridiculous superstition, and a believer in the laughable quackery of spiritualism. I was fool enough to tell him something of my dreams and fancies. My God! I have never seen a man so frightened. He fairly whimpered!
Presently he began to mutter something about malignant spirits—Elementals, I believe he called them—that in certain cases have been known to take possession of human beings—usually those of splendid physique, but childish and uncultivated in mind. All hope is then for ever at an end. The Spirit saps the very life, by reason of its fearful and degrading orgies, until nothing remains but a sinking into the black and bottomless Hereafter. . . .
Madman that he must be, to believe such stuff! Fool! Fool! I hate fools who talk damned rot like that! . . .
Here the Diary ends. The concluding sentences are written in a nervous, hasty hand, the pen, as in a frenzy of indignation, dug deep into the paper.
The morning afterwards, Mr Murcheson was missing from his shelter. His slippers were found embedded in the sticky Severn mud, but there was no trace of his body. It must have been carried out to sea, by the receding tide.
Ulric Daubeny (1888 — 1922)
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1. Within the context of the story, “repaired” to means “went to.” Although it was common to use the word “repaired” in this way at the time the story was written, this is no longer the case, reflecting the way language and word usage can change over the years. ↩
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