"DYER-HauntedHouse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dyer S N)

S.N. DYER

MR. BATTLESBY AND THE HAUNTED HOUSE

SEX, MR. BATTLESBY ruminated. Necessary and all that, in a population sort of
way, but it could hardly be as important as this Viennese chappie would have it.

If you were to believe the man -- and Dr. Entwhistle must, or he should not have
insisted that Battlesby read his translation of his foreign friend's ideas --
then all dreams were about nothing but sex. Lighthouses, trains, tunnels. Guns,
flying. All the same. Bit repetitive.

Maybe it had made more sense before translation. Battlesby, an old hand at the
decipherment of vellum, doubted it.

"Hmmph," Battlesby said aloud. The sound echoed gently in the room, bouncing off
ancient wainscotting. The house was in astonishingly good repair, despite having
been uninhabited for over a century, until taken recently by an unfortunate
family.... Now the boy, a fine manly product of Rugby, wandered Paris lily in
hand, drinking absinthe and seeking death by syphilis. Worse the fate of the
sister -- compromise, responsible party unknown. One was almost thankful that
the mother resided in Entwhistle's madhouse, unaware of her children's shame.

Haunted, the locals said. And this the Twentieth Century! Still, the reputation
did make it difficult to find reliable help.

Battlesby laid the manuscript down beside the candlestick. "Little problem," he
mumbled sleepily. "All this symbolism, but you never get round to interpreting a
dream that is nothing but the act of generation."

He pondered a while. "Perhaps, then, it is really just a dream about a train or
a gun." Viennese indeed. Made one glad to be an Englishman.

He snuffed the candle and lay back in the comforting dark.

He felt warm and cozy under the covers, only his nose cold where it stuck out
into the frigid air. Fire must have gone out again.

He started to rise, breath clouding before him in the moonlight.

"Shh, I will warm you," a feminine voice whispered.

"I say!"

"Shhh," the voice repeated, and hands pushed him back into the bedsheets. Then a
warm, no, a hot figure was upon him, loose hair brushing his face, wet lips
caressing his own.

"I say!" Battlesby sat bolt upright.

"I am here for you," the naked woman whispered, and her hands...

Battlesby leapt out of bed. "Madame!"

She came to him again, leaning against his frame. He noted how his breath
crystallized in the air, but hers did not.

"Come back to bed," she urged. "It is only a dream."

"Yes, a dream," he said. Her hands went where no decent woman's would...

"Stop that, madame!"

She drew back. "But it's only a dream. Come, enjoy yourself."

"Dream or not, it is wrong. Wrong, madame!"

Drawing himself up, he shook a finger at her.

"Wrong?"

"Wrong! An unmarried man ought not disport so with the opposite sex."

She smiled. "Oh, I understand..."

And suddenly she was gone, replaced by a sturdy man with curly blond hair and
the build of Zeus.

"God save me!" Battlesby cried.

"I'm sorry, wrong one. That's for matrons," the immense man apologized,
instantly becoming a barely adolescent boy with silken cheeks and large blue
eyes. "More to your liking?"

Battlesby flew round to the fireplace and grasped the poker. "My word! First you
attempt to carnally assault my virtue, and now you accuse me of Grecian
leanings..."

He brandished the weapon. The boy became again the woman. "You wouldn't hurt me,
would you?" She suddenly seemed so innocent, so frail...

"Egad, enough!" he cried. "What are you trying to do?" He turned to the fire,
stirring up the embers. "I'm too cold to be dreaming." He turned to her again.
"What are you?"

She shrugged, and writhed sensuously.

"Have you no shame?"

That stopped her. "Would you prefer me if I did?"

"Yes...I mean -- Woman, or whatever you are, why are you doing this?"

"I'm a succubus," she said. "I have no role except to warm your dreams."

"You are superstition," he said. "Perhaps I am asleep..."

"Then come back to bed," she suggested eagerly.

"Again, madame, have you no shame?"

She thought a moment. "No. Because if I did, this would be a dreadful job."

Her words gave him pause. "Dreadful?"

"Well yes. It's not like everyone I seduce is pleasant, or attractive, or even
particularly clean.... And it's monotonous too. Become a succubus, seduce a man,
get some seed, become an incubus, impregnate a woman.... Same old thing, night
after night, century after century.... Sometimes I wish -- well, why don't
people ever want to dream a good game of whist?"

"Cards? We could do that," said Mr. Battlesby. "Come downstairs to the game
room. Rather charmingly appointed, you know."

"I do. I'm the one has kept it repaired this past century," she said.

"Um, would you mind?" he asked.

"No, not at all," and she instantly was clothed quite respectfully.

Perhaps her intention at first had been to seduce him through good behavior, but
there is nothing quite so unstimulating as a good game of whist. After a few
nights she and Mr. Battlesby were on such terms as a brother and sister, and she
began to tidy up the house for him while he read her moral lessons and
instructed her in proper behavior.

She in turn told him interesting stories of the past thousand years or so,
giving him an understanding of history quite alien to the ordinary savant, used
to thinking in terms of battles and regents. He decided to tear up his Tudor
history and begin again. It was a major project, and should have proved
impossible, had she not run things so smoothly and kept away distractions. He
took to introducing her as his orphaned cousin from India, who had come to keep
house for him.

"Your cousin is a charming girl," said Dr. Entwhistle, his most frequent
visitor. "I wonder, might I call on her?"

"Long as she never leaves the house, I'd be delighted, old chap," Battlesby
agreed, secretly relieved. His definitive text on life through the ages had won
him a berth at Oxford, and he feared that without his guidance she might slide
back into her old wanton ways.

And so Battlesby became a professor in that modern monastery of learning, and
was a happy and honorable man up to the day he disembarked on the Western Front
and was immediately dispatched by a shell.

Dr. Entwhistle, meanwhile, married and lived happily ever after, though his
colleagues did remark that he no longer seemed to have any energy left for his
practice or his research.

One quiet night as the next war was looming, his Viennese friend came to visit.
The famous physician was living in England now. He expressed great admiration
for Entwhistle's eternally young and beautiful wife.

"But I must know, Entwhistle old comrade," he said, when she had left them over
cigars and brandy. "You never send me your dreams anymore. How can I truly know
you, my friend, or how can you know yourself, if you do not reveal the hidden
messages of your subconscious?"

Entwhistle tugged at his beard, somewhat embarrassed. "Well, it's like this, old
man.... Can you tell me--just what is the symbolic meaning of a good game of
whist?"






S.N. DYER

MR. BATTLESBY AND THE HAUNTED HOUSE

SEX, MR. BATTLESBY ruminated. Necessary and all that, in a population sort of
way, but it could hardly be as important as this Viennese chappie would have it.

If you were to believe the man -- and Dr. Entwhistle must, or he should not have
insisted that Battlesby read his translation of his foreign friend's ideas --
then all dreams were about nothing but sex. Lighthouses, trains, tunnels. Guns,
flying. All the same. Bit repetitive.

Maybe it had made more sense before translation. Battlesby, an old hand at the
decipherment of vellum, doubted it.

"Hmmph," Battlesby said aloud. The sound echoed gently in the room, bouncing off
ancient wainscotting. The house was in astonishingly good repair, despite having
been uninhabited for over a century, until taken recently by an unfortunate
family.... Now the boy, a fine manly product of Rugby, wandered Paris lily in
hand, drinking absinthe and seeking death by syphilis. Worse the fate of the
sister -- compromise, responsible party unknown. One was almost thankful that
the mother resided in Entwhistle's madhouse, unaware of her children's shame.

Haunted, the locals said. And this the Twentieth Century! Still, the reputation
did make it difficult to find reliable help.

Battlesby laid the manuscript down beside the candlestick. "Little problem," he
mumbled sleepily. "All this symbolism, but you never get round to interpreting a
dream that is nothing but the act of generation."

He pondered a while. "Perhaps, then, it is really just a dream about a train or
a gun." Viennese indeed. Made one glad to be an Englishman.

He snuffed the candle and lay back in the comforting dark.

He felt warm and cozy under the covers, only his nose cold where it stuck out
into the frigid air. Fire must have gone out again.

He started to rise, breath clouding before him in the moonlight.

"Shh, I will warm you," a feminine voice whispered.

"I say!"

"Shhh," the voice repeated, and hands pushed him back into the bedsheets. Then a
warm, no, a hot figure was upon him, loose hair brushing his face, wet lips
caressing his own.

"I say!" Battlesby sat bolt upright.

"I am here for you," the naked woman whispered, and her hands...

Battlesby leapt out of bed. "Madame!"

She came to him again, leaning against his frame. He noted how his breath
crystallized in the air, but hers did not.

"Come back to bed," she urged. "It is only a dream."

"Yes, a dream," he said. Her hands went where no decent woman's would...

"Stop that, madame!"

She drew back. "But it's only a dream. Come, enjoy yourself."

"Dream or not, it is wrong. Wrong, madame!"

Drawing himself up, he shook a finger at her.

"Wrong?"

"Wrong! An unmarried man ought not disport so with the opposite sex."

She smiled. "Oh, I understand..."

And suddenly she was gone, replaced by a sturdy man with curly blond hair and
the build of Zeus.

"God save me!" Battlesby cried.

"I'm sorry, wrong one. That's for matrons," the immense man apologized,
instantly becoming a barely adolescent boy with silken cheeks and large blue
eyes. "More to your liking?"

Battlesby flew round to the fireplace and grasped the poker. "My word! First you
attempt to carnally assault my virtue, and now you accuse me of Grecian
leanings..."

He brandished the weapon. The boy became again the woman. "You wouldn't hurt me,
would you?" She suddenly seemed so innocent, so frail...

"Egad, enough!" he cried. "What are you trying to do?" He turned to the fire,
stirring up the embers. "I'm too cold to be dreaming." He turned to her again.
"What are you?"

She shrugged, and writhed sensuously.

"Have you no shame?"

That stopped her. "Would you prefer me if I did?"

"Yes...I mean -- Woman, or whatever you are, why are you doing this?"

"I'm a succubus," she said. "I have no role except to warm your dreams."

"You are superstition," he said. "Perhaps I am asleep..."

"Then come back to bed," she suggested eagerly.

"Again, madame, have you no shame?"

She thought a moment. "No. Because if I did, this would be a dreadful job."

Her words gave him pause. "Dreadful?"

"Well yes. It's not like everyone I seduce is pleasant, or attractive, or even
particularly clean.... And it's monotonous too. Become a succubus, seduce a man,
get some seed, become an incubus, impregnate a woman.... Same old thing, night
after night, century after century.... Sometimes I wish -- well, why don't
people ever want to dream a good game of whist?"

"Cards? We could do that," said Mr. Battlesby. "Come downstairs to the game
room. Rather charmingly appointed, you know."

"I do. I'm the one has kept it repaired this past century," she said.

"Um, would you mind?" he asked.

"No, not at all," and she instantly was clothed quite respectfully.

Perhaps her intention at first had been to seduce him through good behavior, but
there is nothing quite so unstimulating as a good game of whist. After a few
nights she and Mr. Battlesby were on such terms as a brother and sister, and she
began to tidy up the house for him while he read her moral lessons and
instructed her in proper behavior.

She in turn told him interesting stories of the past thousand years or so,
giving him an understanding of history quite alien to the ordinary savant, used
to thinking in terms of battles and regents. He decided to tear up his Tudor
history and begin again. It was a major project, and should have proved
impossible, had she not run things so smoothly and kept away distractions. He
took to introducing her as his orphaned cousin from India, who had come to keep
house for him.

"Your cousin is a charming girl," said Dr. Entwhistle, his most frequent
visitor. "I wonder, might I call on her?"

"Long as she never leaves the house, I'd be delighted, old chap," Battlesby
agreed, secretly relieved. His definitive text on life through the ages had won
him a berth at Oxford, and he feared that without his guidance she might slide
back into her old wanton ways.

And so Battlesby became a professor in that modern monastery of learning, and
was a happy and honorable man up to the day he disembarked on the Western Front
and was immediately dispatched by a shell.

Dr. Entwhistle, meanwhile, married and lived happily ever after, though his
colleagues did remark that he no longer seemed to have any energy left for his
practice or his research.

One quiet night as the next war was looming, his Viennese friend came to visit.
The famous physician was living in England now. He expressed great admiration
for Entwhistle's eternally young and beautiful wife.

"But I must know, Entwhistle old comrade," he said, when she had left them over
cigars and brandy. "You never send me your dreams anymore. How can I truly know
you, my friend, or how can you know yourself, if you do not reveal the hidden
messages of your subconscious?"

Entwhistle tugged at his beard, somewhat embarrassed. "Well, it's like this, old
man.... Can you tell me--just what is the symbolic meaning of a good game of
whist?"