Well, gentlemen, your tales have been most entertaining--it seems the turn has come round to your host. While the crashing of the wind at the panes seems to demand something quite beyond my talents, I will endeavour not to disappoint. Let me tell you how it came to pass that I never took up residence in London. Be forewarned, however, that this is no yarn of invention--I was allotted very little sense of natural imagination. The events I relate actually took place some score of years ago, and my heart still chills at the recollection.

Shortly after my marriage to Caroline, I was offered a position that would take me often on business to the city. It became practicable--nay, essential--to take up residence there. I went down to find something in the way of accommodation. We wanted a house with character in a quiet street, preferably near a park with gardens, to suit Caroline's green thumb and my love of open spaces. Having searched fruitlessly for some days, I found myself commiserating with a pint of good dark ale in a small pub. Looking out the window, I noticed a tall, cloaked figure passing along the street. Even in the failing light I was certain I recognized an oft-remembered friend from my university days. Heart gladdened by auld lang syne, I threw several coins to the pockmarked table and dashed out in pursuit of my old acquaintance.

"Max!" I hailed him, bearing down swiftly from behind. "Maximillien!" Suddenly my quarry seemed to disappear. Just as I reached the spot I'd last seen him, I was grabbed roughly by the neck and slammed against the wall of a grubby alleyway. Note you, gentlemen: I was then as large and broad of shoulder as you find me now, yet my assailant held me pinioned like an insect on a needle.

I had made no mistake--it was indeed my school chum of long ago. The hood of his cloak had fallen back to reveal his sharp, almost lupine features and his unforgettable eyes. A strange amber shade of hazel, they glittered coldly at the great loud bug he had just impaled. "It's Stanfield, old man--Reg Stanfield," I gasped in self-defense. "Dreadfully sorry if I gave you a start!"

"Stanfield," he repeated neutrally, rolling out the name in his sonorous baritone and lowering me slowly to the ground. "Of course. It has been quite some time. Please forgive me, mon ami, but you took me unawares, and one can never be too careful, hmm?" A wisp of raven-black hair blew across his face, like a strand of cloud obscuring the moon. It seemed as if he were nearly going to smile.

Somewhat relieved, I noted that he hadn't changed a whit since our college days. As I said, we had been at school together, though in manner and comportment during those years he had always resembled a professor more than a student.

Almost invariably our tutors found themselves deferring to him, whether the discussion at hand involved social mores, English literature, or Platonic philosophy. He never held forth pompously on any subject, being the irreproachable gentleman in every way. Still, his quiet and cutting logic forced many a heated debate to a question that finally proved both sides of the argument absurd.

Yet he was not a scholar--he was often absent from class, spent little time in the library, and was rumoured to footnote worthies from Aristotle to Shakespeare to Our Lord Jesus Christ from memory, without opening a single text.

He went by Demorte. It was surely an abbreviation of his true family name, perhaps for the edification of the impoverished 'Anglais', we who so badly mangled his native tongue. At any rate, it was one detail among many on which none of the fellows were ever able to draw him out. Whether he was the son of émigré parents who later returned to France or the spawn of Napoleon himself, we knew not.

To be sure, his bearing was as regal as that of any courtier, but he made no claim on noble birth. Slim and athletic of build, he sported clothes of impeccable couture and quality. Yet shirt, waistcoat, jacket, and trousers: all were invariably black. Coupled with his peculiar name and remarkable pallor, this inevitably drew ribbing. Not that it troubled him much, for Demorte's wit under fire was lethal. To his credit, his accent was inconspicuous, though his intonation was at times peculiarly foreign, and his speech was peppered with French phrases. Still I myself heard him speak perfect Cockney more than once with a barkeep or a street vendor, if the mood took him. Several of the fellows even claimed he was fluent in Hindustani.

"He's a man of shadows, is our Demorte," one of my shrewder cronies once noted. "A chap could never really know him."

Now, gazing into that hard and composed countenance, I tended to agree.

Still, I took his hand warmly, having forgotten how crushing a grip he had. As we stepped back into the street he inquired politely what business brought me to London. When he heard of my dismal luck house-hunting, he tilted his sloe head in sympathy. "Why then, Stanfield, you must see the charming neighbourhood in which I let my house--I am just now planning an extended trip abroad, and it will be coming available."

At once I protested that I couldn't think of imposing, especially when he was in the midst of preparations for his journey. He silenced me with an urbane wave. Nor would he hear of me taking him to dinner--"You must dine with me this evening, Stanfield, in my home. My man Anthony will see to your every need." Before I could even agree, I found myself propelled irresistibly along by little more than a light touch between my shoulder blades, and the sheer force of my companion's will. I shrugged and fell agreeably in step with him. It had always been this way with Demorte--as in debate, so in social graces.

My friend's house was set at one corner of a quiet square with a scrupulously tended shock of greenery down its centre. I commented how lovely a scene it would present of an afternoon, and my companion fixed me with a strange look. "Yes, Reg," he said, as if considering the idea for the first time, "I suppose it might."

The street lamps revealed a pleasant two-storey dwelling with a delicate verandah and a porch swing; I immediately thought of Caroline. I asked Demorte whether he had yet considered marriage. He paused with his key in the lock, face inscrutable. "That way lies insanity, mon ami," he finally answered, letting us into the front hallway. Further pursuit of this avenue was cut short as his man came along to take my hat and coat. "Tony will look to an apéritif and ascertain your dinner preferences," called my host over his shoulder as he took his own cloak upstairs. "I will be with you directly."

Upon Demorte's return we toured the dwelling, and I must admit I was favourably impressed. It was the most appealing thing I had set eyes on all week. To the left the hallway opened on a charming parlour and a dining room; on the other side of the staircase, a small study. At the back, the rambling kitchen and pantry were equipped well beyond a bachelor's needs. Upstairs were three large bedrooms and the w.c., the latter done attractively in black and white marble. All was immaculate, nearly dainty, and the household so fastidiously kept I could scarcely believe it had not known a woman's touch. When I made a statement to this effect my friend allowed that he had originally let a room here from a young married couple, who was no longer resident. "Tony keeps things much as they were," he told me with a laconic smile, "and I am here so seldom that I hardly disturb the order of the former mistress."

"'The former mistress'", I needled him merrily. "The expression smacks of that horrible piece 'My Last Duchess' by Mrs. Browning's husband."

"Yes indeed, mon ami," replied my host, clapping me rather violently on the back. "And great poets are the bane of the philosophically blind."

"But Browning? Really, Max!"

"The man goes unappreciated simply because he so often tells the truth."

I was bemused and mildly disappointed; his tone contained an undercurrent that warned me off further courtship of the subject. Moreover, it was sheer folly to lock horns with Demorte on an empty stomach.

Over an excellent repast prepared by the incomparable Tony, I attempted to discover what business kept my old crony so often away from his delightful home.

"Why, I fill coffins, Stanfield," he responded with a perfectly straight face.

I laughed heartily, glad to see his sense of humour had returned. "Honestly, Demorte," I gasped, "you are a card!"

Now I say we were dining, but as had always been the case with Demorte, he did little more than worry the contents of his plate with his fork. By way of contrast I took double helpings and consumed most of the large decanter of fine Chardonnay Tony had placed before me. At dinner's end I was both refreshed and nicely fattened for argument. As we retired to the study's rosy hearth, I was rather surprised to hear Tony bidding his employer good evening and quite vacating the premises. "My God, Max," I exclaimed when his man had departed, "you really are all alone!"

"Solitude suits me, Stanfield," my host parried with a sardonic curl of a smile, "and après tout, company always seems to find me out."

Chastised thus for pointing out the obvious, I duly steered the conversation elsewhere. We whittled the evening down to the wee hours in reminiscences, political tête-à-tête, and stories of our adventures since graduation. Though we spoke at length of my Caroline, I was never able to draw him back to the earlier dark pronouncement on marriage that had so piqued my interest. And with some chagrin I must also confess that I did the greater part of the talking. Demorte, ever taciturn, was an adept listener and seemingly comfortable in that role.

"Good Lord!" I cried when it finally dawned on me to consult my pocket watch. "Demorte! I've kept you all night! I really must be going."

"Nonsense, dear Stanfield," intoned my host, eyes glinting. Over the course of the evening I’d become somewhat déshabillé--my jacket lay over a chair, and both cravat and collar were rumpled by graded loosenings. Demorte, however, remained as fresh and alert as the moment I'd accosted him on the street. "Your companionship has been a pleasure," he continued, rising, "and as the hour and propriety now preclude a return to your lodging-house, allow me to light our way upstairs. I think you will find that Tony has anticipated circumstances and prepared a room for your use."

Commanded once again by his irrefutable logic, and bleary-eyed from food, brandy and conversation, I followed my old friend up the stairs like an obedient child. At the door to my room Demorte handed over the candle. He bade me have a pleasant rest, saying he would be gone before I rose on the morrow. We agreed he would seek me out at my lodgings the following evening to discuss arrangements for the house, should I still find myself interested after a day's consideration.

The instant my head felt the pillow, I dropped into a deep sleep, but I don't mind telling you, gentlemen, I was not to remain in that state for long.

Not more than an hour after settling in, I was jolted rudely from my sleep by the sound of a door being flung open in one of the other upstairs rooms. The force was sufficient to rattle my headboard. There was a skittering in the outer hallway, as of bare feet on carpet, followed hard-on by a pursuant set of heavy footfalls. A muted crash ensued, accompanied by a piteous female scream and the tinkle of glass shattering.

My own door burst inward, and a dreadful weight fell across me, knocking me flat. Things inhuman writhed atop the bedcovers. There were strangled words, I believe, which terror rendered incomprehensible to me, and then an unspeakable pounding began, with sounds--oh, I cannot bring myself to describe them—as if something were being hammered relentlessly against the foot of the bed. The entire structure seemed to plunge and shudder, and I with it. Finally, stasis, and some few choked gasps, followed by the ominous sound of a body giving up its life. They call that noise 'the death rattle', gentlemen, and if any of you have ever heard it, well, you know the chill brands itself indelibly on your person.

Yet all was not finished. There was the creak of a board in the hallway and a foreshortened exclamation, perhaps of surprise. After this came a brief and sickening pop, and moments later a stupendous thud in the downstairs hallway. Launching myself from the bed, I bounded for the dim outline of the rail and peered down the stairwell. I swear to this day I could discern the shadow of something below, lying unnaturally twisted on the flagstone floor.

A hand bit into my shoulder, and I would have pitched over the rail myself had its owner not hauled me several steps back. "Not so close to the edge, I think, mon ami," breathed the cool voice of Demorte in my ear.

Wheeling about to face him, I noted my host had not yet discarded his street clothes. "There is something wrong in this house, man!" I fairly screamed at his pale, silent face. "Something abominably wrong!"

"Alors," rejoined my friend in a tone so frigid it snapped me back to my senses at once, "dress yourself, then, Stanfield, and we shall hear what it is that has impelled you to the brink of suicide."

I somehow feared that I had incurred Demorte's ill favour as we sat together in his kitchen, where he poured me cup upon cup of strong coffee and listened to my ravings. With each detail his countenance seemed to grow more unreadable, more expressionless. When I had finally concluded, he emitted a protracted sigh. "It seems my hospitality has failed you utterly, Stanfield."

"Not at all!" I cried warmly, "for surely this is none of your doing, Demorte, and you would never have remained alone in a house with such horrors, or suffered a friend to do so, had you been aware of them!"

Steepling his long fingers before his face, my host speared me with his eyes. "They are merely the restless dead, mon ami, nothing more."

I stared back at him, aghast. "Then you knew?" I began, half angry now.

"Not of the phantasms, dear Stanfield."

"Then?"

"'And all night long we have not stirred, and yet God has not said a word.'"

"Infernal depths of hell, Max," I raged, "this is no time for poetry!"

Demorte blinked slowly, and, it seemed to me, with hard-won patience. "At various junctures during the evening, Stanfield, you tried to draw me out on the subject of marriage."

"Yes, and you resisted my every attempt, despite my most clever efforts."

"C'est ça. You will recall that I at first let a room in this house from a young couple."

"Of course," I said.

My host pushed back his chair a touch and crossed his arms over his chest. "Possibly you are aware, my friend, how some men view marriage as a metaphor for ownership. No, let me finish. Such men have, however erroneously, rationalized that they possess their wives in every sense of the term. 'Sir, 'twas not her husband's presence only, called that spot of joy into the Duchess' cheek.' A pity you care so little for Browning; he explains things so exquisitely." Demorte paused for a moment to judge, I think, how well I followed him. "In this case, Stanfield," he resumed, "our bridegroom was assiduously aggressive, shall we say, in claiming his conjugal dues. And how convenient for him to have a border in residence who was so rarely present to interfere with the assertion of his rights."

My forehead furrowed as I listened, watching my friend's features turn almost imperceptibly sharper, more feral, with the telling.

"I returned unexpectedly one evening--not long after the hour you and I retired tonight, as a matter of fact. I discovered that he had raped and murdered her by dashing her head repeatedly against the footboard of one of the beds. I cannot but wonder, mon copain, how much that had to do with me."

"You astound me, Demorte!"

"I scandalize you, good Stanfield."

And what, indeed, could I have said to that? Finally, I demanded what had become of this monster that had fancied himself a husband.

My host raised a brow, and for the second time that night I was reminded of a sloe-haired wolf. "It was the opinion of the medical examiner that he broke his neck falling from the second floor landing."

Despite the coffee and the reassuring brightness of his kitchen, I grew cold gazing across the table at my old friend.

"Tu comprends maintenant, Stanfield," Demorte addressed me quietly, "how solitude suits me?"

And so, gentlemen, there is little more of my tale to relate: my friend let me out on the street before dawn that morning, and I have never seen nor heard from him since, just as I have never been back to London. Now if it pleases you to retire, your rooms are well stocked with candles, more than enough to burn all night. Or if you choose to remain by the fire awhile longer, taking comfort in one another's fellowship, that's where I will be.