爱龟者和龟 Chelophil & Chelonia

The Chest of Arnold


   Among those playmates of my childish years, Henry Wentworth was the one whose company had lasted to become a permanent friendship. Shortly after he was born his parents moved from Essex to Peterborough, and lived near our family house. As young folks we had known each other ever since we could run about and scream. We are of the same age, attended the same Grammar school, the same high school, and had always been classmates. However, when he had attained the age of 19, his father decided to send him to Europe to study Medical Science. And I remained at home, helping my father with his businesses. The place to which Henry was going was called Schattenberg, a sparsely populated burgh in the south of Switzerland, not far away from the northern slopes of the Alps. It was a lovely little Arcadia, quiet, clean, and with a great deal of snow for much time of the year. And though it was but a small town, it had the beautiful landscape and solitude fittest for the studious mind. In fact, it also had one of the oldest universities in the country, of whose medical school was Henry now a member. People may have heard of it, also through the Church of St. Nicholas there, one of very wide and ancient fame, built in the Middle Ages. But I knew the place from Henry himself, for he came back once a year and paid us visits each time. I still have pictures of his under the table, which were taken with gothic towers and snow-crested mountains in the background.

Just as all old universities, this one of Henry's had its history and its many stories: Gossips such as, a certain faint-hearted fellow, woken by the bright moon at midnight, spied, through the moist dormitory window, a stiff figure standing forlorn in the shadow of the morgue, whose door had been mysteriously left open. Henry often wrote to me, relating such interesting bits and ends which he overheard and saw there. Yet among these, none had exceeded in their bizarre nature than that which had happened to himself. He wrote me a long letter about the incident, and now I have it in my hand.

It was the first day of his arrival. Having just finished with registration, Henry was looking quite confusedly at the door of what was supposed to be his dormitory. It was an apartment on the top floor of a ponderous building, which was probably built during the wars and so relatively young. But it really gave no sign of youth in its appearance; for it stood, solitarily, on the far end of the university. And behind, the land was connected with a forest of pines and cypresses. The wild location, the dampness of the weather, and the dark gray color on the mossy walls gave it an air of severity and desolation.

In his hand Henry held the bunch of rusty keys given to him by the elderly lady at the real estate office at #73, Vitruvius Street. And when he inserted one into the keyhole he could by no means open the door. At last, he turned it so hard that he managed to fling it open, only having left half of the key inside the hole. At the same moment he was greeted with a shower of dust from the ceiling. Pieces of white-wash peeled off and flopped down by his feet; and in several other places more were about to rain. Henry couldn't help a frown as he skirted his way to reach his room, room B, with the letter painted on the door. The sight of it was likewise desperate. Henry would have been happier with a used room inhabited by an untidy man; but this one didn't seem to have ever entertained any form of life–except for an offensively huge cockroach, which was wagging its tentacles inquiringly on the opposite wall. Henry couldn't help marveling at its sheer size, in regard to the extreme dearth of the environment. "Your castle well beseems your grace, my lord Roach." He addressed himself to the animal, and looked about.

Again there were spots of white-wash dashed here and there. A layer of fine dust covered the desks and the chairs scattered about in several corners. The door to the balcony had problem with its hinge, and could not get shut; so it kept from time to time creaking and banging at the frame whenever a wind arose. And worse, when he tried the switches on the wall he found none of them worked. Or the electricity was somehow cut off. It was beyond possibility to merely live here, not to mention studying.

In the middle of the room Henry noticed the most preposterous piece of furniture. It was a large, oblong chest made in very old fashion. The dimmed but delicate patterns on the body, formed by metal linings, rather reminded him of the heavy wardrobes at home in which his grandma's dowry had been stored. It was made of mahogany and felt very full and heavy when Henry tried to move it. The arched cover was fastened, not with a lock, but with nails, long iron nails, hammered in at four corners. Around the middle, there were two thick hoops of iron, largely eaten with rust, as if to reassure the safety of the content.

The rest of the furniture in the room was quite simple and artless. A closet, which was perfectly new—if viewed from inside, and empty; A bed untenanted, but never by nature wasted, for a lovely patch of fungi flourish in the middle, forming fantastical shapes. Above in the ceiling, was a water-mark of almost identical size, which must have been the chief nourisher during rainy seasons.

So utterly confounded, Henry returned to the office, where a mustached man had taken the place of the old lady. Henry described the situation and asked him for a change, as he could find no hope of repair in that one he entered. The man seemed not to believe him and asked:

"What is your room number, sir?"

"Room 701 B, #136, Hippocrates Lane"

"And your registration number?"

"802101002."

The man searched over his book. Then he looked up, taking over the keys from Henry and said:

"So you are Mr. Henry Wentworth?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Wentworth, I'm afraid a mistake has been made,” Said the clerk, “your room number ought to be Room 601 B, the same house. Very sorry for the inconvenience. I'll bring you the keys presently."

"Then I should thank you, for I'm very much relieved. Errh by the way, I broke a key when I tried to get in; but you've really got to see the room yourself. It was in a most sorry condition." Said Henry.

"We'll see to that later. Here are your keys, sir." Replied the clerk, giving him the new keys. Now it was near the end of the day; but at least there was one less thing to worry about.

Room 601 was nothing like the place upstairs. It smelled entirely human, or of men, strictly speaking. It wasn't new, either, but it made him feel warm and relaxed. His 2 roommates had moved in before him. Room A was occupied by a delicate French youth, named Charles Calmet; and in room B lived a rather bulky, and somehow disorderly Polish young man called Simon Labienski. Both were in general terms very agreeable persons; and after several days, they got on to know each other quite well. Calmet, though, was a little peculiar in character. He was fair-haired, lean, and had thoughtful pale-blue eyes. He didn’t talk much, and enjoyed no youthful indulgences. For the major part of his time, he contented himself with perusing strange books whose titles Henry had never seen before, books such as Traité sur les apparitions des esprits et sur les vampires, ou les revenants de Hongrie, de Moravie, etc., as Henry once spied on his shelf. His father used to be a theologian at Sorbonne; and he seemed also to take delight in the study of mysterious subjects. The sole ornament in his room was a human skeleton, which he daily examined. Labienski on the contrary, loved wine and a good conversation above all. He was tall, with curly, oily bird's-nest hairstyle, which was a perfect manifestation of his life style. Henry and Calmet never understood why his father would desire him to pursue the job of a physician; for otherwise he'd make a champion athlete, or an artist-for the dominant inclination in his nature was towards art and craft. He spent most of his spare time, and even his class time, making all sorts of woodworks. There were carvings, ship models, and sculptures, all virile and wildly passionate works. He even made a small coffin for Calmet's skeleton. There’s little wonder that he was the only man on the class who yet couldn't tell the second rib from the clavicle. And accordingly he had often to borrow Calmet's skeleton. He stuffed it under the bed with the coffin, and took it out to pay his homage before examinations. As to medical science he wasn't really made for that. His look alone could have distressed a patient looking for sense of safety. And his actions well proved the same. The way he innocently damaged the cadavers on the anatomy class had more than once infuriated the old professor, who declared that if he kept on treating dead persons in that manner, he was not far from treating living persons to their deaths. And he would charge a fine for one more such an offence. Now it was not that Simon had no respect for these corpses, but that he had too much genius in his right hand; whereas a body was to it always an excellent piece of dead log calling for refinement. But in spite of these, Simon actually was a very harmless fellow in life.

For the first week Henry submerged himself in studies enthusiastically. He spent whole days hearing lectures and in labs, and was often so tired when he returned at night, that he made for bed as soon as he could. But one evening, out of no particular reasons, or perhaps because he missed the usual hour for rest, he stayed wide awake in bed till about half past twelve. And as he stared blankly at the ceiling, he heard, or he fancied that he heard a grinding sound, and that of something fallen. He couldn't at once make out where it came from. At first he thought this was from Labienski, who daunted by tomorrow’s quiz, might be pulling out his coffin to examine the bones piece by piece.

 "Poor chap he really is, having to amuse himself with a skeleton." Thought Henry in bed, and couldn't help a little gloating under the quilt. And as he grinned he heard, a second grinding sound, more distinct than the previous. And it wasn't coming from either the left or right room, but from the one above. For a while, the atmosphere grew quite strange in the room; and Henry's body stiffened a little; and a heat spread over his back. Then there came a third, prolonged sound, low yet unmistakable in the dead of night, as if a heavy object is being dragged across the floor which was his ceiling. And then someone seemed to be moving, for he heard what he vaguely recognized as steps. They hit on the floor yet with most straggly pace, as if it were a man wearing high-heeled shoes, and so plodded and tripped as he walked.

 "How, I didn't notice it." Wondered Henry, "Someone's finally given the bloody room! Then I'll have good reason to pardon or even pity him; for he must have been exhausted with cleaning it up. Silly of me to be disturbed by a small noise, huh." So thinking, he laughed a little laugh. "Yet I would still wonder what he could do with the mushrooms on the bed." Muttered he, and with this good humor would have comforted himself to sleep. But it was a windy night; and he heard upstairs a door was banging frantically, creating a noise rather disturbing to his mind. He didn't know why but he got up, walked to the balcony, and leaned out to take a look. Against the color of the night he saw only a dim glow reflected from the windows above, which for the greater part remained in dark. And also as he opened his window, the person upstairs seemed to have become conscious of his presence, and for a moment paused to wait and listen. Yet as soon as Henry returned to bed the man resumed his work once more. With a troubled heart Henry fell asleep. And in his dream he had a curious feeling that he had been watched; and the watch disconcerts him. He felt a heaviness on the chest, but wasn't able to move and turn, nor could he force himself to wake up. The uneasiness caused by an icy heat burnt around his neck and over his back. Thus he remained as if confined in semi-consciousness until it was perhaps 4 or 5 o'clock at daybreak. Then the sensation began to disperse. Immense tiredness overtook him; and he sank into a deep slumber.

Yet there seemed to be a good lot of work to do for the new occupant; as for the ensuing days, Henry always heard at around the same time, the monotonous grinding and footsteps. And gradually Henry had nearly developed a sickness of it; for these noises worked like a sinister alarm clock which robbed him of his sleep. It usually proceeded this way: first there came, as it were an announcement, two heavy thuds of something like leaden objects near the center of the room; and there was a low and agonizingly long-drawn frictional sound, effected by moving heavy wares on the floor. And then there were footsteps, as he heard on the first night, scattered and ponderous tapping in irregular circles above his head. All of this, thought Henry in the beginning, should be owing to that stupid chest, whose presence was to anyone a major vexation. The fellow up there did somehow manage, inch by inch, once to get it under the bed. But to Henry's madness, the very next day he would, most inconsiderably, suddenly decide to replace the bed, perhaps to keep it away from that leaking spot on the ceiling. And thus the chest had to be replaced also. However, Henry could bring out no fit explanations for why the same operation had to be done night after night, and at one o’clock, which showed the tenant was more than obsessive. This going on for another week had annoyed Henry, who had been looking terrible with tiredness. At last, he tore out paper balls from his ears and decided that if tomorrow the noise wasn't gone, he would go up and speak to him.

The next day Henry didn't go to bed early, whether he intended so or involuntarily he couldn't tell. He sat up till near 12 o'clock in piteous anxiety. Perhaps the chap upstairs had also learnt, through a mysterious function of the sense, that it was no time to bother; and accordingly nothing happened when Henry laid out his bed. Peace at last, he thought, and laid him down to enjoy a repose after 2 weeks. But no sooner had he done so than a heavy thud rumbled down right upon him, which made him whish to roll under the bed for refuge. He had no time to do so; for this was followed by a second with no less momentum. Henry bounced up like jack-in-a-box, threw on himself an overcoat, and darted out of the room.

The air outside was still and cold; and his heart seemed to feel it. And as he climbed the stairs, he wondered inwardly that what a difference is there just one floor up. With every step he took he seemed to approach towards a remote place. It was so empty and silent here; as if it didn't belong to the same part of the building. No, not even the same part of the world. And those angry moods ebbed gradually in contrary to the ascent. Very slowly and gingerly, he turned the corner, and saw the door there on the top. Now he stood in front of it, and knocked.

It produced no response. Then a second knock. And to his surprise, the door slid open of itself: it wasn't locked at all. He remembered that on the first day of his arrival, he had broken the key in the keyhole. It was still in there; nothing had been done, how strange. And through the opening gleamed some pale green light.

"Hello? May I come in? The door's open." Addressed Henry to the emptiness, "I live downstairs; my name's Henry." He heard no reply. Only the air seemed to whisper his name in a low voice. So he walked towards where the light issued from. It was coming from room B. He remembered that once he saw on the balcony a faint glow reflected from the window. It was the same pale green light. To his left in the sitting room, was a table, on which stood a flambeau of ancient fashion, as those seen in old churches. Upon it burnt a thin, white taper. The meager flame flashed unrealistically, but scarcely illumined aught, but only dazzled his sight and made everything else more in darkness. To be sure there was still no electricity. Henry closed in slowly to the room giving out the green light. The door was open as well. He walked into the doorway and faced it.

When he looked at the room he trembled. It had been furnished, but was in the ghastliest fashion. It was imbued in a lurid hue of green; for down the four walls of it hung large, pale green valances, which so entirely covered up the room that no windows, or vent could be seen. Another flambeau stood on a table at the far end of the room, right opposite against the door. The place so sickeningly altered, now more resembled a secret chapel on the hidden part of a gothic cathedral than a dorm house. Indeed it was nothing like the one he entered three weeks ago, except for the same desolation and the presence of the Chest in the middle. Yes, the chest was the object that so far excited greater horror than all the dreadful embellishments; for it was now opened. The two iron hoops lay side by side on the floor, and must have been the cause of the daily thunderous droppings. The lid or cover was flung back; but over it was covered a white cloth, which assumed a greenish tint through the candle light that reflected the color of the huge valances. And upon its green-white surface everywhere was besmeared with dirt, and to Henry's horror, large patches of darkish stains, of gores. It looked like a priest's alb, but not those he saw in Switzerland; it was nearly rent to tatters. And beneath this dishallowed robe what content lurked dared he not imagine further; but it was placed in such wise that it formed the posture of someone kneeling on the floor, and bending over the chest to examine it. He couldn't see with his bleared and giddy eyes what was that that bulged, and unevenly bulged like flesh underneath; but it seemed to heave and breathe either with or without the breath of life, and was about to rise and turn. Henry uttered a cry and started back.

He hit on a hard object as he retreated, and as he turned round to look, he saw a figure standing at the door of the washroom. It wore a ragged piece of clothing, one would rather say a shroud, muddy and bloody as that he saw in the room, and the loosened threads hung wretchedly about his sleeves. It held in one of its bony hand a lamp, muffled in green gauze, which Henry just felt with his back, and the other hand was reaching out in a crooked, menacing manner towards Henry's throat. In the shock of this horror, he afterwards remembered, that he had once had a glimpse at the face of the creature. Its head was wrapped in a worn-out piece of white linen; with strands of gray, wet hairs hanging out from beneath. The face was extremely tortured, pale, and old, so was his nailed, palsy fingers, even like the talons of a vulture. And verily Henry later remarked that it had no more flesh on the face than there was on a mere skull. Its eyes, projected from the sunken sockets, evinced neither sign of life nor human intelligence; and the expression on that visage was the mixture of utmost loathing and baseness, an image of sheer monstrosity.

Fear and disgust seized the Henry's heart. Though he had dealt with many dead faces, yet never with one like this. And with what power of reason remained in him, he crossed himself and cried help to the holy one. And as the creature paused a little, ran to the table in the sitting room, seized the taper and flung it at the thing. The linen garment caught fire and burnt. Then he bolted wildly for the door, flew in a mad fury down the stairs, into his room, and blocked the door, the window, and gasping sank down onto the floor. Then he lay down on his bed without taking off his clothes, waiting for daylight to come.

The next morning Henry fell ill. He told his friends about the hellish room upstairs, which the two found too hard to believe and doubted to be the working of a fever in the brain. But then Labienski remembered that while he was counting bones last night, he did hear Henry swoop in, slamming the door as if in great fury. And though he was hit with a sudden heat of the body, and his countenance was gray, Henry's reason displayed no sign of delirium to the eyes of the two medical students. His mind was whole, his utterance clear, and disregarding its apparent impossibility, his narrative well-organized and coherent. For Simon, who had not much time for observation, the only thing remains to do is to go up and have a look himself. This idea he proposed, and Calmet approved it; for he was also very curious about the matter, and was almost excited as he heard it told. Henry, refreshed by the daylight and some good Tokay, felt also his courage returned to him. Now that he had allies at his sides, and both of them young and trusty, he almost felt a little ashamed for himself that he'd been reduced to a running nose and sneezing. So after lunch, Henry, Calmet and Labienski went up to the apartment on the 7th floor. They came to the door; and Henry saw the broken end of the key still in it. He pushed; and it yielded to entertain them.

It seemed to them nothing unusual had ever happened to the place. There was no flambeau in the sitting room, no burnt taper. But all was in the same condition as when Henry saw them on the first day. As they came to room B they saw no valances; but there were patches of white-wash on the ground, fungi on the bed, water-mark on the ceiling, and again, even the same huge cockroach, only he had journeyed to another part of the wall during the interval. Yet indeed, around the center of the room there lay a big, antique chest, at which Calmet marveled a great deal. But it was fast nailed, and fastened with large hoops. So they walked in towards it.

As the three of them entered the room, they suddenly felt that the sunlight had somewhat dimmed. They looked at each other's faces, and a strange oppression blocked their throat, and for a while none could utter a word. They had sensed the presence of something unpleasant.

"I don't like this place," Said Labienski, shaking his head, "and I don't like this old thing. It lacks art."

Henry was looking back nervously through the doorway at the washroom. It was not yet 3 o'clock in the afternoon. But in the room it appeared as if it were already dusk.

But Calmet paid no attention. He seemed quite interested and was looking hard at the intricate patterns on the wooden chest, and then he said:

"There was no dust on it, look, very clean." He bent down and touched the cover with his hand, "If anything, it's in fact quite well-preserved. Yet I dare say it hadn't always been in the same place.”

“I can’t agree with you more; because I heard it every night and saw it open.” Said Henry, “But how do you know?”

“I know it by right of those pieces of fallen white-wash.” Said Calmet and smiled, pointing with his hand, “Look at these several patches near the bed, and those others over there; they were crushed almost into powders, and displayed irregular tracks on them as if they'd been crushed over and over by something. Surely it couldn't have been our feet. Now look at the bottom of the chest. And judge for yourselves."

When they looked at the lower part of the chest, they found to their horror, that it was indeed besmeared with whitewash at the bottom. And Calmet said to Labienski: "Go back, Simon, and fetch us your ax and chainsaws. We need your arms. Quickly, we'll have to dispatch the matter before dark!"

"Very glad; just one minute!" Cried Labienski, and ran downstairs.

"What are you going to do, Charles, crush it?" Asked Henry.

"No, I just want to take the chance to see him." Calmet shook his head and said, his face even flushed a little for excitement.

In a moment Labienski reappeared with his toolbox, and he looked at Calmet for directions.

"I'm afraid I have to apply your strength on a meaner job, Simon,” Said Calmet, “As neither of us can deal with woodworks, open the chest for us."

"You mean to let me hack it?" Laughed Labienski, "I can't like the idea better, ha; never liked it. I can take it to pieces and put it back again, yet still make it ten times better." And he raised the ax with his formidable arms, and hacked at the iron hoops. They fell broken without much ado, being rusty and old. Then Labienski inserted a steel knife under the cover, and then with an iron bar he prized it. The nails were stubborn, and proved some difficulty. But Labienski never gave us doubt on matters of strength. And finally, the nails also yielded; and with a loud crack, the lid was flung open. As soon as he'd done so, an odor offensively strong rushed out and spread, so much so that they had to cover their noses and back away. When they somehow had got used to that malevolent stink, they walked closer by the chest to look what was in it.

Inside was a chest-ful of black soil-and nothing else. Henry was surprised to see that the content was actually earth; for he could swear that when he last saw it open, it looked uneven and rugged under the white covering. Calmet held up a handful of soil and examined it; and then he turned to Labienski, and asked him to probe the iron bar into the earth. He did so, and turned around in great amazement.

"Deary me," He cried, "The earth is only this deep!" He made a sign showing the depth of the earth, which was no more than 2 inches. "There seemed to be something more down there!" Said he.

Nodded Calmet in agreement and asked: "If there's a second compartment down there can you remove the upper part?"

"I’ll try!" Replied Labienski.

Then he set to work with his tools again. He discovered that there was a piece of movable wood on the right side of the chest, loosely fixed with a wooden peg. Pulling that away, and thrusting the whole piece aside, he was able to remove the upper compartment of the chest. When he had done so, even he couldn’t help a gasp at what he saw. Calmet and Henry stepped up by him to examine the cause of it.

The second compartment was revealed underneath, which was more spacious and hollow than the one containing earth. Near to the bottom, lay a torn white alb, soiled and daubed with brownish stains—not unfamiliar to Henry's sight, whose eyes were yet still wide with amazement. And when Calmet pulled it away with the iron bar, there showed underneath, 2 large silver flambeaus, and tapers which seemed newly burnt. Further, beneath these, was a piece of shroud, with tiny growth on the texture, which gave it a light-green look. It was folded over and over; but yet at this moment it didn't appear as voluminous as when it was conjured up to veil the room. And when that was also lifted, it disclosed, to the sudden horror of all three, a dried and undecayed corpse. It was again loosely wrapped in dirty white linen, which like a cloak even covered part of its head. And on its breast there was a piece of dressing which may be vaguely identified as a priest's chasuble. The lower part of that, as Henry observed, showed signs of burning. Its limbs were well preserved, the fingers long and pointed, and by the right hand there a lantern, wrapped around with a piece of cloth. The body was reduced to the size of a child for the loss of water. But the expression on its face was grim and frightening. There was an unnamable hatred and cruelty in the curve of its mouth that would make the beholder shudder with cold. Its eyes were shut, but one could not tell whether it was in death or sleep; the bulging eyelids provoked immense fear; for every time one looked on them, they seemed to promise opening the very next moment.

"Shall I make away with it?" Labienski asked, taking up the iron bar, and was about to demolish the corpse with it, "I know how the country folks deal with such matter in Poland. You'll hear it scream when I do." As said he would have done it as well. And the look on the dead man’s face seemed to turn extremely ferocious at the moment.

But Calmet cried out and stopped his hand. "Don’t Simon! It’d be better if you still do it in class. It doesn't help, except for making it uglier.” He closed the cover, and said: “We'll have place for it to sleep quietly. But it’ll need our help, and let us be short with our work. When it gets dark, I have no idea how it’ll behave."

Thus for next few hours, they were busy re-interring the undead. The three men under the direction of Calmet, took pains to carry the chest away from their dormitory building, and out of the wall of the university to the cypress woods near by. There they stole some gardener’s spade, and managed to dug a deep hole, laid the chest down, covered it with earth, and trampled on it till it hardened as usual. After this was done, the day has totally fallen dark. They left to take a shower and have their clothes changed. For all of them were sweating profusely and had dirt on their shirts and shoes.

On their way home, Henry and Simon kept asking Calmet about the strange visitant; for they were still very much unsure about whether it will pay a revisit. “Well, possibly.” Said Calmet with a chuckle, “If the university decides to build new quarters on that part of land I’m almost certain it will rise angrily again.”

“Really, but what was that, thing, after all? You seem to know quite a good deal of it.” They said.

“I have never before seen these things myself. That’s why I’m so eager to open the chest. Sorry Simon, it might as well have been shut.” Said Calmet with a sly look, “But I wonder, well, if you have heard of the 'Nosferatus'?”

"O sure we do, that's to say vampires." Cried Labienski, "Then why didn't you let me pierce its heart and cut off its head? For that's what the folks do to vampires in Poland."

"I never said it IS, Simon" Corrected Calmet, "But it may be a similar case of transformation of the expired body, but surely more inferior. Otherwise Henry would have no luck for escape. For I heard that vampires needed to repose in their home soil during the day; therefore I suspected that this Father Ghost we buried was not in origin a native of Schattenberg, by right of the black soil in the chest. And indeed if you had compared it with that here, you'd find it resembled the earth of nowhere in the whole Schattenberg. Henry and I will go to St. Nicholas' Church to take a look at the church documents. But as I remember you have classes to attend tomorrow."

“I don’t remember anything like that.” Said Labienski.

Now there remains not much of the whole story. The next morning, the three young men went to St. Nicholas' Church, and asked the sexton for an examination at the church's historical documents. Since the townspeople were usually friendly to students and researchers, they were kindly received and obtained full access to the church registers. For several hours they rummaged through papers, and at last, one piece of paper, dated 1937, in particular roused their attention. It was written to the effect that when the new campus of the University of Schattenberg was built, as a result of the builders' miscalculation, a portion of it thrust into the border of the churchyard at the back of St. Nicholas' Church. This happened partly because the large churchyard had no clear boundaries but only a cypress forest to mark the area. However, no damage of local graves had been announced; and the university soon replanted the trees they removed. The three friends now had little doubt that upon that part of the land in question now stood their dormitory house. Encouraged by the discovery, they redoubled their effort into the search. And later, while reading through the long records of those who were buried at St. Nicholas' Church, Calmet's eye had caught this line: Arnold Sovitzo, Hungarian Priest, d. 1831 AD. The description of the man and his burial was brief to the point of cursoriness. Of his life no more was recorded than that he was originally a priest in the region of Médreiga in Hungary, and either because he uttered careless words that were regarded heretic or sacrilegious, or he was indeed led astray by the devil during his spiritual quests, was hated by his countrymen and traveled here in exile, where he died lonely. Of his burial it was additionally noted, that he had made a will before his death, to the effect that he wished to be interred with his native soil, of which he had brought a portion upon his wagon as he left his hometown.

These were all the information they managed to grasp about Father Arnold Sovitzo, though they search muched longer that day hoping to dig out more of him, no more there was to be found. To this probably may only be added that it was the custom or prejudice of the local people to have their relatives buried around the inner part of the graveyard, which was closer to the church. And outlanders were usually buried in the outskirts. It was no wonder, there some of the graves, being too old and in lack of care, became scarcely recognizable after decades. Calmet's opinion on the revenant was that it might not be truly harmful to Henry physically, as the fabled vampires would be. And he believed that as long as they had restored to him a more respectful rest place than under the building, it should be not taking pains to climb to the top floor any more.

At least no more trouble there has been till now. The room upstairs was finally repaired and furnished. No one, including the tenants who later occupied the room, has ever seen the chest again. Yet from time to time, when the moon was shaded by the clouds, and when Henry was treading on the narrow path alone by the forest, he had more than once mistaken one amidst many pointed cypresses, for the shape of a shadow-like man in a shadowy long robe.



trans:

阿诺德的柜子

 

在我童年的伙伴里，只有亨利·温特华斯至今仍是我的挚友。他出生后不久，一家子就从埃塞克斯搬到了彼得伯勒，住在我们家附近。从穿开裆裤开始我俩就是死党，二人年龄相仿，从小学到高中都是同班。不过十九岁那年，亨利的父亲突然决定让他儿子去欧洲大陆学医。我毕业后就留在了家里，帮父亲打理生意。他去的那个地方叫做夏登堡，是瑞士南部一个人口稀少的镇，靠近阿尔卑斯山的北坡。那是个平静的世外桃源，一年之中有很长时间能看到雪。尽管很小，但它优雅的风景和宁静的氛围对于求学的人来说，再适合不过了。事实上，瑞士最古老的大学之一就坐落在此，亨利是医学院的新生。不少人听说过夏登堡，是因为那儿还有个十四世纪建造的天主教堂，圣尼古拉斯大教堂。不过我是听亨利说起的，因为他每年回家，总会过来拜访几次。我的桌子下夹着几张他的照片，背景是哥特式的塔楼和白雪皑皑的山脉。

 

像所有的老学校一样，夏登堡大学既有历史，也有野史。其中不乏有理有据的坊间传闻，荒诞不经的小故事更数不胜数，比如说，某人半夜被月光弄醒，透过水汽弥漫的窗子看见解剖实验室的门无缘无故开了，墙边的阴影里孤零零地站着个一个人影什么的。亨利经常写信告诉我两三件道听途说的轶事。然而，我觉得，这些比起那件真正发生在他自己身上的事，倒不足为怪了。亨利曾经写了一封长信，告诉我事情的来龙去脉。这封信现在就在我手上。

 

那是他到学校的第一天。注册完毕，亨利一走到“新宿舍”的门口就纳闷了。这间公寓在一幢巨大的楼房的顶层。宿舍楼造于二战期间，确实算相对较“新”的建筑。不过从外观上看，却已经老态龙钟，孤独地伫立在学校最边缘的一角。背后的土地已经和一片松树和柏树林连在一起。这略显荒凉的地段，连日潮湿的天气，以及泛着青苔色的灰墙给人一种严酷的破败感。

 

他的手里拿着一串生锈的钥匙，这是上午去维特鲁威街73号物业办公室时，一个耳朵不太好使的老婆婆给他的。他把钥匙插进去开门，却怎么也转不动。最后他猛地一掰，门开了，钥匙也断了，半截留在锁孔里面。与此同时，一团灰尘应声从他鼻子跟前落下。客厅的天花板已经开始剥落，地上掉的一块一块的，另外还有几处的石灰也摇摇欲坠。亨利不觉皱了下眉头，辗转绕到自己房间门口，他的房间是B间，门上印着字母。这个寝室景象同样惨不忍睹。对于亨利来说，他宁愿住一个有人住过的房间，也不要这样一个没有任何生命迹象的房间。这样说其实也不对，因为在对面的墙上，就有一只硕大无朋的小强，此刻正好奇地晃动着触角。亨利不得不惊讶于这个物种的强悍，因为在食物如此稀缺的地方还能长这么肥。“爵爷，您的宫殿长的跟你太配了！”他一边对蟑螂说，一边四下看看。

 

同样这间屋子里也处处掉满了石灰。书桌和零落的椅子上都蒙了密密的一层灰。阳台们的门轴坏了，关不紧，风一吹就不停地敲打着门框。更糟的是，亨利试了墙上所有的开关，竟然一个都不能用。若不是都坏了，就是房子没通电。这样子让人怎么活啊，更不要说学习和研究了。

 

不知哪个装修工还很无厘头地在屋子正中央放了件家具。这是个老式的大木柜，上面的图案和用金属镶出来的花纹让亨利觉得很眼熟，好像他祖母的放嫁妆的那些箱子上也有差不多风格的装饰。柜子是用红木做的，很重，亨利一个人根本没法搬动。拱形的盖子四角被用大钉子钉死，中间还有两个铁箍加固，不过都已经锈迹斑斑。

 

房间里剩下的布置相对比较简单无趣。一个空衣柜，从里面看是全新的；一张没人睡过的床，被大自然回收利用了，上面长了些蘑菇，排成极有创意的形状。天花板上有块几乎等大的水斑，无疑是这些它们的主要哺育者了。

 

几乎崩溃的亨利回到物业办公室，此刻换了一个留小胡子的男人当班。亨利描述了一下他的境遇，要求换个房间，因为自己对那间屋子实在无能为力。那工作人员有些不太相信地问：

“您住哪间宿舍？”

“希波克拉底巷，136号，701室B间。”

“注册号？”

“802101002。”

小胡子男人低头查名单。不一会儿，他抬起头，拿过亨利手中的钥匙说：

“是亨利·温特华斯先生？”

“是的。”

“先生，恐怕这里面有点小错误。”他说，“您的房间号是同一幢楼的601 B间。非常抱歉给您添了麻烦，我马上去换钥匙。”

“好吧，那谢谢你咯。”亨利如释重负，但还是有些无奈地说，“嗯，我开门的时候弄断了一个钥匙。不过你应该自己去看看那个房间；实在是太叫人无语了。”

“我们过一阵会去处理的，这是您的钥匙。”工作人员答道，一边递给他一串钥匙。这时候天色已晚，不过对亨利来说，总算少了件麻烦事。

 

601室倒完全不像楼上那么凄惨。至少有人类的味道，严格地说，是有男人的味道。里面不算新，不过让亨利觉得比较温暖和放松。另外两个室友已经早早地搬了进来。A间住着一个看上去比较纤弱法国青年，叫查尔斯·卡尔梅。B间住了一个身材魁梧，但有点乱糟糟的波兰人，名叫西蒙·拉宾斯基。总得来说，两人都还挺好相处；几天后大家都比较熟悉对方了。但卡尔梅是个有些特别的人，甚至有点怪异。他长着浅黄色的头发，淡蓝色的眼睛，身材瘦削，寡言少语。他讨厌凑热闹，大部分时候很满足地窝在房间里看些乱七八糟的书，那书名亨利是一个也没听说过，像什么《鬼魂显灵考》之类的，有次亨利在他书架上瞥见。他的父亲是巴黎大学的神学教授；而他自己也似乎很痴迷于这些神秘的话题。此外他房间里唯一的装饰是一具人体骨架，他每天都要摆弄研究一番。而B间的拉宾斯基却和卡尔梅完全相反，此人能喝能侃，人高马大，留了个油腻腻的鸟巢发型，很适合他的个性。卡尔梅和亨利一直不明白为什么他老爸想要这个儿子当医生。要不然他完全可以当个金牌运动员，要不就成为艺术家—因为他的真正的天赋其实是木匠。所有空闲的和不空闲的时间，他几乎都用来刻木头，包括木刻画，舰船模型和雕塑等，全是野性而富有激情的作品。有次他还给卡尔梅的骷髅造了个小棺材。不过他自己是班上唯一一个到现在还搞不清锁骨和第二根肋骨的学生，这也不奇怪。因此他不得不把卡尔梅的骷髅借过来，放进小棺材，塞到床底，每逢考试前就拉出来顶礼膜拜一番。医学对他来说，真的不太适合。光是这人的长相就会让迫切需要安全感的病人心灰意冷。他的实际行动也证实了这种判断，他对待解剖室尸体的方式，已经完全触怒了教解剖学的那个老头，后者断言，如果拉宾斯基继续这么对待死人，那么他离把活人搞死也不远了。老教授还决定以后他每再犯一次，就罚他一次钱。其实，拉宾斯基并非不尊重那些尸体，怪只怪他拿刀子的那只手太有天分；一碰到尸体，就不由自主把它当成一根等待加工的上乘木料，遂在上面尽情施展起来。不过话说回来，西蒙在生活中完全是个和平主义者，从来不曾伤害过什么人。

 

开学第一周，亨利全身心地投入到了学习中，他整天跑实验室，听讲座；晚上回来，都已筋疲力尽，每每倒头就睡。有天晚上，也不知为什么，可能是错过了正常的睡眠时间吧，他在床上翻来覆去，过了十二点半还没睡着。就在他两眼盯着天花板发呆的时候，忽然间传来一串很低的磨擦声，和什么东西掉下的声音。一下子也听不清到底是从哪儿来的。开始他觉得是从拉宾斯基的房间，因为明天有考试，可能他在掀棺材验骨了。

 

“可怜的人，又得陪骷髅叔叔玩通宵了。”亨利在床上忍不住有点幸灾乐祸。正当他偷笑的时候，磨擦声又响了起来，比前一次更加清晰。而且，它既不是来自A间，也不是来自B间，而是来自楼上。一时间屋子里的气氛有点诡异；亨利觉得身体僵硬，一阵不舒服的热气开始在背上扩散。声音第三次响了起来，在黑暗中拖的很长，毫无疑问。仿佛是件很重的物品被人在地板上拖来拖去，还伴随着像是有人走动的脚步声。那声音击打在地板上，以拖沓的节奏一下一下地响着，让人联想起一个穿着高跟鞋的男人，在一嗑一绊地移动。

 

“怎么，我都没注意到，”亨利想，“他们最后竟然还是安排人住那间见鬼的屋子了！这样的话我可要同情这人了；到现在一定打扫得都快断气了吧。唉唉，看来我是不应该抱怨着点声音的。”他笑了笑对自己说：“不过我还是很想知道他会怎么对待那些蘑菇。”他原本可以这样一边调侃，一边入睡的，可是当天正好狂风大作，他听见楼上有扇门在砰砰地猛烈撞击着门框，搞得人心神不定。于是他披衣下了床，走到阳台上，探出脑袋去张望。在夜色中，他看见一轮淡淡的光晕从楼上的窗户映出来，大部分都还是黑的。在他开窗的时候，楼上的住客好像也觉察到了亨利的动作，于是停了一会儿手中的活，像在注意地听。然而，等亨利一回到床上，这人又干开了。亨利带着一丝烦躁睡了过去，但是整个晚上，他总感觉像是有一双眼睛在梦里看着他；而且看得他很不舒服。他老觉得胸口很闷，但无法移动和转身，想醒但是醒不过来。一种既冰凉又灼热的感觉遍布了他的脖子和后背。就这样他就在半昏迷状态中躺到了凌晨四、五点的样子。然后那梦魇开始慢慢退去，巨大的疲劳涌了上来，他陷入了沉沉的睡眠。

 

可是，对于新搬进来的陌生房客来说，好像总有干不完的活。接下来的几天，亨利每天都在差不多的时间听到挪东西的声音和拖沓的脚步声。时间一长，不免有了心理阴影，因为这些声音像个反作用闹铃，总在他入睡的时候叫醒他。铃声一般是这样的：先是两声重物落地的闷响，如同开幕式的礼炮，接下来是残疾运动员入场的脚步声，在他头顶转圈，最后是销魂的磨锯声。亨利起初断定，导致这些噪音的罪恶源头，无疑是那个古董箱子，任谁在房间里看到这个东西都会一筹莫展。不过楼上的人竟还是一寸一寸地将它成功推到了床下。但让亨利抓狂的是，第二天他又对这个方案产生不满，于是推倒重来，决定把床再挪个位置，可能是为了避开天花板漏水的地方。与此同时，推箱子也要再玩一遍。不过，亨利还是不能参透，为什么重复的运动每晚都要演习一次，而且是半夜一点钟锻炼身体。这让他觉得，此人不是一般的强迫症。又过了一个星期，亨利愤怒了。由于极度缺乏睡眠他已经形销骨立面容憔悴，终于，某个晚上他一把扯下耳朵里的纸团，发誓明天如果还是这样，他就要上楼去和人理论。

 

第二天，或是有意或是无意的，亨利比平时迟了一点上床，可怜巴巴地熬到十二点半。楼上的人似乎也对当天的局势有某种预感，于是一直到亨利躺下，什么都没有发生。“世界清静了！”他想道，而正在此时，一声闷响重重地落在他额头上方，让他有想钻床下躲避空袭的冲动。但他还没来得及钻，第二声又响了起来，威力丝毫不逊。不能再忍耐了，亨利一下子跳起来，披上外衣就往外面冲。

 

寝室外面的空气很冷，连他的心脏也似乎有同感。当他沿着楼梯走上去的时候，他不由得惊叹，这一层楼往上和下面的差别竟然这么大。每上一级台阶，就好像离开了很远的路。上面的空间空旷而寂静，简直不像是在同一幢建筑里。不，甚至不像同一个世界。亨利心里的怒气随着台阶的上升，反而慢慢降了下去。慢慢地，小心翼翼地，他转过了拐角，然后看见了顶上的那扇门。再过了一会儿，他已到了门前，伸手敲了敲。

 

里面没有人回答。他再次用力敲了门。这回门开了条缝，不是里面的人开的，是一敲就自己开了。原来这扇门本来就没锁。他想起来那天自己到这里来开门的时候，不小心把钥匙弄断在锁孔里了。半截钥匙现在还在里面，没有人来修理过，这太奇怪了。从打开的门后面，闪出一点淡绿色的微光。

 

“喂？我可以进来吗？门没关。”亨利对着空气说，“我叫亨利，住在你下面。”没有人理睬他，只有空气里好像有个轻微的气息在重复他的名字。于是他朝光线的来源走了过去，那应该是从B房间发出来的。他记得有一次在阳台上，他也看到过这种淡淡的光。在客厅里靠墙摆着一张桌子，放着个古旧的大烛台，就像教堂里面那种。上面插着一段细细的白色蜡烛，摇曳的烛光给人一种不真实的感觉，它几乎不能照亮任何东西，反而晃得亨利的视线模糊不清，而让周围显得更加黑暗。可见这屋子还是没有通电。亨利慢慢地朝着发出绿光的房间靠近。房间门开着，他大步走到门前，一下子转身对着它。

 

第一眼看到里面，他就浑身颤抖起来。没错，房间的确被装修过了，不过，却是装扮成了最骇人的样子。整个屋子笼罩在一片惨淡的绿晕中，因为四面墙壁上都垂着大块的浅绿色的帷幔，把房间围了起来，遮住了窗户和阳台。在正对面靠墙的一张桌子上，放着另一个点亮的烛台。这个被装点成这般景象的房间，此刻更像哥特式大教堂里面的某个隐蔽的小祷告室，完全无法让人联想起三个礼拜前的那个屋子，除了那份不变的凄凉，再有，就是房间正中央的那个柜子。没错，这个柜子此刻比其它所有这些东西都更为恐怖，因为它现在是打开的。两个大铁箍并排躺在地上，显然是它们发出了那种低沉的落地声。上头的盖子向后掀起，但上面却覆盖了一块白布，在烛光下也泛出了吓人的绿色，与之形成强烈对照的是，布上处处沾了黑泥和大块大块深褐色的污迹—是血迹。它看上去像是一件牧师的长袍，但亨利在瑞士从没见过这种式样的衣服，而且破的像一块烂布。在这被玷污的圣物下面，到底藏着什么，亨利不敢去想象。但这件衣服被放的姿势，从门口看去，好像是有个人趴在箱子上面检查里面的内容。亨利此刻觉得头晕目眩，他看不清衣服下面那团突起的东西，像血肉一样突起的东西，是什么。但它好像在不断地起伏和呼吸，尽管不是呼吸这个世界的空气，它好像立刻就要站起身来，转过头看见他。亨利忍不住叫出了声，往后退去。

 

他后退时，身子撞上了一个硬物。他一回头，发现背后的盥洗室门口站着一个人影！它身上披着褴褛的衣衫，甚至不如说，披着一件尸衣，和屋里的那件一样血迹斑斑，边缘起毛脱落的线头垂在袖子周围。一只骨瘦如柴的手提着一枚灯笼，外面包着一层绿纱，亨利刚才正是撞在灯笼上面。另一只手像钩子一般，恶毒地朝亨利的喉咙伸过来。亨利事后回忆，在受到惊吓的那一刻，他也看到过一下那东西的脸。它的头上裹着一块破烂的麻布，下面露出几缕灰白，潮湿的头发。它的面部极度扭曲，苍白，而且出奇地老，他那些长着指甲的抖动着的手指也都是这样，看上去像一只猛禽的爪子。亨利曾说，他觉得那张脸上的肉，少得和一个骷髅没什么区别。它的眼睛在深陷的眼窝下突出来，那个眼神里既没有任何生命的迹象，也没有人类的理智。它整个脸上的表情是一种极度厌恶和卑鄙的综合，是恐怖本身的形象。

 

害怕与反感抓住了亨利的心，尽管他见过不少死人的脸，但还没见过一张长成这样的。用他身体里仅存的一点理智，亨利划着十字反复念起上帝的名字。就在那东西犹豫的一刻，他奔向客厅的桌子，抓起上面的蜡烛向它丢去。它身上的亚麻布着了火。亨利发疯地向门口跑去，三步两步冲下楼梯，回到寝室，手忙脚乱锁上了门和窗，然后坐在地上喘气。过了一会儿，他和衣爬上了床，等天亮。

 

第二天早上亨利病了。他把他头天晚上的经历告诉了室友，两人听了都满腹狐疑，认为这可能是体温升高的幻觉。不过拉宾斯基回想昨天晚上他数骨头的时候，的确听见亨利摔门而入，当时还以为他和别人吵架。而且，尽管亨利有些低烧，脸色也差，但他说的话条理清晰，情绪也比较稳定，两个医科新生看不出有错乱的迹象，尽管故事本身听上去像一派胡言。对拉宾斯基这样不爱细究的人来说，现在最直接的办法是不如大家都到楼上去看个究竟；这也正是他的提议，卡尔梅立刻表示了赞成；他从一开始听亨利说起是就显得很来精神，甚至有些兴致勃勃。亨利自己喝了几杯托凯酒后，精神好了起来，况且现在是白天，更觉得勇气又恢复了八九成。如今他的身旁有年轻可靠的同伴，他都有点因为自己被吓得流鼻涕而脸红了。于是吃过午饭后，亨利，卡尔梅和拉宾斯基就上了楼。他们来到门前，看见亨利的半段钥匙仍在锁孔内。稍稍一推，门顺势就开了。

 

看起来这里好像并没有发生过什么。客厅里找不到什么大烛台，或者烧过的蜡烛。一切就和亨利最早进来看到的一模一样。他们走到B间，里面也没有挂着绿色的帷幔；只有东一块西一块的石灰散落在地上，蘑菇还长在床上，水印还在天花板上。甚至连那只蟑螂都还在墙上，只不过在这段时间内它换了块地方蹲点。不过，屋子正中间果然有一个老式木柜，卡尔梅一看见这件东西就惊讶不已。不过柜子已经被钉子钉死，上面还有铁箍。他们进了房间，向它走去。

 

当他们最后一个人走进来的时候，忽然三个人都觉得阳光好像变暗了一些。大家互相看了看对方的脸，一种奇怪的压抑感似乎堵在他们喉咙口。有一段时间谁也没有开口说一句话。这屋里有种东西让他们很不舒服。

 

“我不喜欢这房间。”拉宾斯基摇着头说，“也不喜欢这个老柜子，它做的一点也不好。”

 

亨利有些紧张地通过门口朝盥洗室望了望。现在还不到下午3点，不过在屋子里好像已经是黄昏时分。

 

卡尔梅好像没有在意这点。他站在柜子前，像是饶有兴味地欣赏着上面复杂的图案。过了一会儿才开口说：

 

“这上面干净得很，你们看，没有一点灰尘。”他弯下去摸了摸盖子，说道，“其实，这东西还保存地挺好的。不过我敢肯定它并不是一直在这个位置。”

 

“我完全同意，每天晚上它都在移动。”亨利说，“我是亲耳听见，还看见它被打开过。不过你怎么知道呢？”

 

“因为地上的这些石灰啊。”卡尔梅笑着用手指了指，“你看，床边和四周的这几块，像是被碾过，都成粉状了，在它们上面还有一条条压过的痕迹。显然不应该是被我们踩出来的。你们看看柜子的底部，就可以有结论了。”

 

亨利和拉宾斯基凑近一看，发现柜子底部果然沾满了石灰。这时卡尔梅对拉宾斯基说：“西蒙，快去寝室把你的斧头和锯子拿来。我们要靠你了，必须赶在天黑前把这件事打发掉。”

 

“很好！一会儿就来。”拉宾斯基喊道，就跑下楼去了。

 

“你准备怎么做，查尔斯？难不成把它砍了？”亨利问。

 

“不是砍，我只想趁这机会看看他。”卡尔梅摇着头说，他兴奋地脸都有些发红了。

 

不一会儿拉宾斯基又出现了，手里提着心爱的工具箱，一边询问地看着卡尔梅想知道下一步该怎么行动。

 

“西蒙，恐怕我们需要你做点不体面的活，”卡尔梅说，“我和亨利谁也不会摆弄木头，只好让你帮我打开这个柜子了。”

 

“你的意思是让我劈它？”拉宾斯基笑道，“好主意！我早就看它不爽了；我可以把它拆成一片片的再装回来，甚至还会做的比原来好看十倍。”说着他抡圆两条巨大的手臂，对着铁箍就砍下去。两个铁箍应声落地，因为本来就已经锈得老掉牙了。接着拉宾斯基将一把刀插进盖子下面，再拿一根铁杆去撬。那些钉子非常牢固，让他颇费了一番周折。但拉宾斯基在力量这方面从来没有让人怀疑过。最后，钉子终于投降了。只听一声脆响，盖子松动起来。他刚一把它往后掀开，一股刺鼻的臭味从衣柜里面冲了出来，逼得他们不得不退避三尺。过了一会儿，他们的鼻子慢慢地适应了这气味，才再次走上前观看。

 

里面是满满一柜子黑泥，别的什么都没有。亨利看到这一幕，觉得不可思议；因为他几乎清楚地记得那天柜子打开后，他看见白色法衣下面是凹凸不平的。卡尔梅用手撮起一把泥土看了看，然后转头让拉宾斯基用工具去挖一下看看里面有什么东西。拉宾斯基于是把铁杆伸进土里，随即惊讶的转过身。

 

“乖乖！”，他喊道，“这土只有这么点啊！”他做了个手势，表示大约两英寸不到的样子。“看起来好像下面还有什么东西！”他说。

 

卡尔梅点点头问道：“假如说下面还有一个隔层，你能打开吗？”

 

“试试看！”拉宾斯基说道。于是他操起各种各样的家伙又干了一阵。他发现，在衣柜的右边有一块活动的木板，松松地用一个木钉固定在那里。只要把钉子移走，再把整块木头抽掉，上面放土的那个隔层就可以挪动了。照这样拿掉第一层后，连拉宾斯基这么强壮的人都忍不住倒吸了一口气。卡尔梅和亨利立刻走上去，看看里面到底是什么。

 

下面是第二个隔层，比起上一层来更大，更空。靠近柜底有一条破旧的法衣，沾满了泥和深褐色的污迹。亨利虽然见过一次，但此刻还是看得两眼发直。卡尔梅用铁杆将它掀了起来，下面露出两个银色的大烛台，表面已因年代久远显得黯淡无光，另外还有些烧过的蜡烛—貌似熄灭才没多久。再下面是一条白色的裹尸布，但是上面长了些绿色的东西，看上去就好像泛着淡绿色。它被反复叠了几层，不过此刻并没有那晚挂在墙上时显得那么巨大。再掀开这一层，下面的东西真正把三个人都吓住了。那是一具没有腐败的干尸。它外面还用脏兮兮的麻布松弛地包了几层，就像个斗篷，把头也蒙住了大半。在它胸前还有一条织物，依稀可以辨认出是牧师作弥撒穿的十字褡。亨利注意到下摆上面有烧过的痕迹。尸体的四肢保存完好，手指又细又尖。它的右手边有个小灯笼，外面用布包了起来。整个身体因为失水已经缩得和一个小孩差不多大小。但是它脸上的表情却仍旧阴森可怖。在嘴角的曲线里有一种莫名的憎恶和残酷，让看到人不由得会身上一冷。它的双目紧闭，但看上去说不出来是死了还是在睡觉。那对突起的眼皮让人望而生畏；每次看到，都会觉得它们好像随时可能在下一秒突然睁开。

 

“要不要结果了它？”拉宾斯基问，他拿起铁杆，准备毁尸。“我知道在波兰，乡下人是怎么解决这些家伙的。听着，据说刺的时候它还会叫。”说着他就要下手，在铁杆下的尸体这一刻脸上的表情似乎变得极度狰狞。

 

但是卡尔梅大叫一声抓住了他的手说：“别，西蒙！这招倒还不如在课堂上玩的好。这样做没有好处，只会让它看起来更丑。”他合上盖子说，“我们该找个地方给它安安稳稳地睡觉。不过需要你们帮忙，来吧，得抓紧时间了。天一黑它可不一定听话了。”

 

于是接下来的几个小时，他们就忙着给尸体重新下葬。三人在卡尔梅的带领下，好不容易把柜子弄下楼，搬到了学校围墙外靠近柏树林的地方。他们偷来园丁的铁锹，挖了个大坑把衣柜放进去，上面盖上土，再用脚踩实直到看不出有人挖过为止。这时候天已经完全黑了。他们这才回去洗澡更衣。三人都已经大汗淋漓，衬衣和鞋子上都是泥污。回去的途中，关于这个不速之客亨利和拉宾斯基还是问个不停。他俩对那衣柜心有余悸，担心它会二度来访。“嗯，可能会吧。”卡尔梅笑着说，“如果学校决定再扩张到那片森林上，在我们挖的地方盖起新楼，我猜它几乎肯定会再度出土的。”

 

“是吗？可它究竟是什么呢？你好像已经很了解了很多了呢。”他们说。

 

“我以前也没亲眼见过这些东西，所以我才那么想打开柜子。对不起西蒙，其实本来并不是必须打开的。”卡尔梅狡黠地笑笑说，“问一下，你们都听说过‘诺斯费拉图’吗？”

 

“这我当然知道，就是吸血鬼啊！”拉宾斯基喊道，“那你怎么不让我刺穿它的心脏呢？我们那边的乡下人都是这么对待吸血鬼的。”

 

“我根本没说它就是啊，西蒙。”卡尔梅说，“只是这可能是一种类似的尸变，但是肯定不是那一种，要不然的话亨利就算喊破喉咙也不会脱险。我听说过僵尸在白天需要躺在埋葬它的故土里面；所以我猜我们埋葬的鬼神父应该不是夏登堡人，原因是我们看到柜子里面有黑土。假如你当时拿它去和别处的泥土比较一下的话，你会发现整个夏登堡都没有这种泥土。明天亨利和我会去一趟圣尼古拉斯大教堂，看看那里的纪录。不过我记得你明天应该有课。”

 

“有吗？我不记得有这回事。”拉宾斯基说。

 

接下来故事就剩下不多了。第二天一早，三个年轻人去了圣尼古拉斯大教堂，向司事请求察看教堂的史料。一般镇上的人对学生和研究人员都非常友好，他们很容易就获准翻阅教堂的记录。在故纸堆中进行几个小时的搜索后，有一页标着1937年的记录，引起了他们的注意。上面写道，当夏登堡大学的新校区在建的过程中，由于建筑工人的疏忽，导致新校区一角侵入了圣尼古拉斯大教堂的墓地最后方的边缘。一方面，这也是由于墓地面积很大，并没有固定的围墙，而是以一排柏树林为界。而且没有当地人报道说有坟墓遭到破坏。大学也很快重新种植了被他们砍伐的树木。看到这段，三人几乎毫无疑问地确信，那块被侵占的土地上面造的，就是他们现在住的宿舍楼。有了这个发现，他们大受鼓舞，便信心百倍地再次投入到搜索工作中。稍后，卡尔梅在翻阅埋在圣尼古拉斯的死者名单时，找到了下面这个条目：阿诺德·索维佐，牧师，匈牙利籍，死于公元1831年。对这个人和他的葬礼的描述简略到了草率的地步。关于他的生平，记录上只说他是匈牙利米德雷加地方的牧师，可能因为说了被当地人认为是异教或亵渎的话，或是他的确在信仰的路上走了弯路，被赶出了家乡，流浪到瑞士，最后孤独地死在夏登堡。关于他的死亡，另外还有一条补充，他死前立了个遗嘱，希望可以把自己和家乡的土壤埋在一起，他出门前曾在车上载了一些泥土，随后才离开故乡。

 

这些就是他们所能找到的关于阿诺德·索维佐神甫的所有信息了。尽管那天的搜寻继续了很久，却再也没有新的发现。也许唯一还需要说的一点是，一般本地人都会把自己的亲人葬在墓园中心离教堂近的地方，而外乡人可能就被埋到墓园的外围。因此有些坟墓在几十年后，由于无人看护，也会变得难以辨认。卡尔梅的意见是，那个鬼魂其实并不能真正对亨利的身体造成伤害。而且，如果它有个比大楼底下更加体面的栖身之处，应该不会再费尽心机去爬顶楼了。
 

至少到目前为止，卡尔梅的话是对的。后来，楼上的房间终于被修理过了。再没有人，包括后来住进来的学生，看到过那个奇怪的衣柜。不过在某些夜晚，当亨利独自打那片黑黑的柏树林边上走过时，他不止一次被其中一颗吓到，因为它站在暗淡的月光下，就像个穿斗篷的人。一个穿着长衣的，影子一般的人。