Silence. Then — “He disappeared,” she said at last. “Lambert’s, my husband’s aunts, used to speak of him. He was the black sheep of the family. He went away and he never came back. Yes. He disappeared.”
Bagnell had brought another picture along, of another group of soldiers, as a sort of control, and now he put both in her hands. “Might you recognize a family resemblance?”
She pushed one away after a glance, but the other one she looked at long and long. “A family resemblance. Yes. The one at the end. On the right. He has Lambert’s look. Yes. He has Lambert’s look.” And, very silently, her slow tears rained along the ruined landscape of her face.
A family resemblance. Is not Ephraim a beloved child? And what had he come to? A thing in three boxes: shrivelled, withered, broken, and foul. But now at last, thank God forever dead.
Bagnell to Larraby: “When was Ephraim Mackilwhit. that is, where was the Paper-Man found? Come clean.”
“Basement storeroom, in an old private girls’ school in Gainsboro, couple years ago. Mustee was picking up a little extra money there as a weekend relief watchman,” said Larraby.
Thither went Dr Claire Zimmerman, at Bagnell’s request, to interview the headmistress, Mrs. Sidwelclass="underline"
“Yes, this is one of the oldest houses in town. It is well-preserved, and consequently required no major restorations. It has made an excellent private school building.” Mrs Sidwell stopped and thought. “Do I recall anything odd happening a couple of years ago? Well, there was a… I suppose the word I have to use is prank. It’s difficult to say when a prank gets out of hand and becomes. something more. Dr Rose Bennett asked me into her Advanced English class during a morning break. She said there was something on the blackboard she didn’t like. Of course I expected what we used to call a naughty word. Are there anymore naughty words? I haven’t quite grown used to hearing sweet girls talking like sailors. Well, no, it wasn’t a naughty word. The words Nothing but Death were written on the blackboard, and the writing was odd. somehow wrong. The next day the same words were written on a blackboard in room A-6, and the following morning, there it was again. Security and maintenance promised to keep a close watch on room A-6, and the next day the words Nothing but Death appeared in room C-12! When that happened, everybody began to get nervous. Well, we photographed the words, sponged all the blackboards, and read the riot act to security and maintenance, but still it appeared. Of course you’d like to see it. ” Mrs Sidwell rummaged in a drawer and handed an enlarged photograph to Claire, who studied it intently.
“Then Rose Bennett remembered that those were Jane Austen’s dying words. But the handwriting bore no resemblance to samples of Jane Austen’s, and we weren’t even teaching Jane Austen that year. So our school was being haunted by a spectre with a good knowledge of early 19th century English literature. But who?”
“Judging from the cramped and wavering writing, it must have been somebody very sick, or very tired,” said Claire.
“Oh my, I don’t like the sound of that, though you’re probably right. I must say, the whole thing gave me the creeps. Do you think somebody very old wrote it? The writing looks so weak and old fashioned. But why would an old person come creeping in like that? I asked Rose Bennett what the class had been discussing, the day before the words appeared. She remembered that she had asked them; ‘If you could be granted only one wish, what would you wish for?” The next morning, the words began to appear: Nothing but death. Then just as suddenly, it stopped.”
Claire examined the photograph closely. “What’s that down at the bottom of the blackboard? It looks like the letters ‘E.M.’ in the same writing.”
“Oh yes, sometimes that appeared too. But nobody knew what it meant,” said Mrs Sidwell. And then the bell rang and she had to go.
Vlad Smith and Jack Stewart were bedded down in an old-fashioned Tourist Guesthouse for the night. It was owned by Mrs Warrington, who looked like a gentlewoman in reduced circumstances. A bottle and glasses stood on the table next to a small pile of rather unprofessional-looking printed matter.
Jack tugged a comb through his tangled molasses curls and picked one up. “Nice old guy who gave us these,” he said. “Mr Pabrocky. All these years he’s been sending you these things and then all of a sudden you turn up on his doorstep. The News Bulletin of the Atlantic Folk Lore, two words and no hyphen, very dubious usage, Club,” he read. “Volume XV, number 11, to be precise. ‘WHO’S BOSS IN YOUR WALL?’ Cute, hey? There is a story told particularly in the south eastern and south central states of a spook or specter or bogle or hant who inhabitants houses and other older, usually, buildings. He is musty and gant and lives in the walls and floors and empty rooms and is seldom seen. The description is that he is skeletal but unlike other such myths he is depicted as wearing old clothes and is afraid of cats and fires. Perhaps because he is all dried up? It is quite a task to look this subject up in indexes and bibliographies, for one thing because it has so many names and for another so little seems to have been published. So we urge our members to make inquiries wherever they happen to be. Perhaps our little amateur News Bulletin may provide some information which the learned quarterlies have not. This folk tale figure is called ‘Paper-Man’ because he lives behind the wall paper which used to be on every wall but now no longer owing to the high cost and labor and also, we assume, because of a prejudice that ‘Bugs’ breed there. This creature issues a noise which is variously described as clicking or clattering or even rustling. Hence the various names of ‘Rustler’ or ‘Clicker’ as well as ‘the Boss in the Wall.’ Another name is ‘House Devil’ and Mary Mae Subchak reports she has heard it referred to as ‘the Devil in the Wall.’ “
Stewart next applied his lips to a glass, then said, “Well, I would give this a… a B-minus. You, Dr Smith? Trouble with amateurs, they are always reinventing the wheel.”
“MORE ON PAPER-MAN NAMES (CONT.)” Jack read.
“We find that the so-called ‘Minorcan’ descended people of St Augustine, Fla., employ the name or term ‘Clicky Dicky.’ Alas for our hopes that we might find some such Spanish survival variants. Crossing the peninsula to Pensacola, we note that ‘Clicky Bizky’ has become ‘Tricky Dicky,’ a term extending as far south on that coast as Tampa. We were unable to find this legend at all in St Petersburg, Fla, an absence tentatively attributed to the Northern-Origin of so Many of The People in the ‘Winter Capital’. Mr Pabrocky has suggested, with the well-known twinkle in his eye, that it is remarkable nonetheless that neither ‘Clicker’ nor ‘Clicky Dicky’ is to be found where there are so many Senior Citizens (of whom he is one!), considering how many of them have the medically well-known condition, ‘a clicking knee-cap’! Humor apart, this does raise the QUESTION, if the ‘clicking’ attributed to the specter comes from the sound of teeth as had generally been believed or to some other source.Hmmm.” Jack put the News Bulletin down.
Vlad sighed wearily. “Is there any more brandy in the bottle?”
There was no more brandy in the bottle. They argued back and forth about opening another bottle. Each took both sides. Then they opened another bottle.
“Should we read more mind-improving books now?” asked Jack.