The Best of Gerald Kersh Read Free Page A

me. Snick-snick! He opened the suitcase. My heart beat faster. He returned to the table, carrying an oblong box and a large board. I held my breath.
    He drew a chair up to the table, upon which he carefully placed the board. For a second he hugged the box to his breast, while he looked over his shoulder; then he slid the lid off the box, and, with a sudden clatter, shot out on to the board a set of small ivory chessmen. He arranged these, with indescribable haste, sat for a while with his chin on his clenched hands, then began to move the pieces.
    I wish I could convey to you the unearthly atmosphere of that room where, half buried in the shadows, with the back of his head illuminated by a ray of moonlight, and his enormous forehead shining yellow in the feeble radiance of the night-light, Shakmatko sat and played chess with himself.
    After a while he began to slide forward in his chair, shake his head, and shrug his shoulders. Sometimes in the middle of a move the hand would waver and his head would nod; then he would force himself to sit upright, rub his eyes violently, look wildly round the room, or listen intently with a hand at his ear.
    It occurred to me that he was tired – desperately tired – and afraid of going to sleep.
    Before getting into bed I locked my door.
    *
    It seemed to me that I had not been asleep for more than a minute or so when I was awakened by a loud noise. There was a heavy crash – this, actually, awoke me – followed by the noise of a shower of small hard objects scattered over a floor. Then Shakmatko’s voice, raised in a cry of anguish and terror:
    ‘You again! Have you found me so soon? Go away! Go away!’
    His door opened. I opened my door, looked out, and saw him, standing at the top of the stairs, brandishing a small silver crucifix at the black shadows which filled the staircase.
    ‘What is it?’ I asked.
    He swung round instantly, holding out the crucifix. When he saw me, he caught his breath in relief.
    ‘Ah, you. Did I disturb you? Forgive me. I – I——May I come into your room?’
    ‘Do,’ I said.
    ‘Please close the door quickly,’ he whispered as he came in.
    ‘Sit down and pull yourself together. Tell me, what’s troubling you?’
    ‘I must leave here inthe morning,’ said Shakmatko, trembling in every limb; ‘it has found me again. So soon! It must have followed on my very heels. Then what is the use? I can no longer escape it, even for a day. What can I do? Where can I go? My God, my God, I am surrounded!’
    ‘What has found you? What are you trying to run away from?’ I asked.
    He replied: ‘An evil spirit.’
    I shivered. There are occasions when the entire fabric of dialectical materialism seems to go phut before the forces of nightmarish possibilities.
    ‘What sort of evil spirit?’ I asked.
    ‘I think they call them Poltergeists.’
    ‘Things that throw – that are supposed to throw furniture about?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And does it throw your furniture about?’
    ‘Not all my furniture. Only certain things.’
    ‘Such as——’
    ‘Chess-pieces and things connected with the game of chess. Nothing else. I am a chess-player. It hates chess. It follows me from place to place. It waits until I am asleep, and then it tries to destroy my chess-pieces. It has already torn up all my books and papers. There is nothing left but the board and pieces: they are too strong for it, and so it grows increasingly violent.’
    ‘Good heavens!’
    ‘Perhaps you think that I am mad?’
    ‘No, no. If you had told me that you had merely been seeing things I might have thought so. But if one’s chessboard flies off the table, that is another matter.’
    ‘Thank you. I know I am not mad. My name may be unfamiliar to you. Are you interested in chess?’
    ‘Not very. I hardly know the moves.’
    ‘Ah. If you were you would have heard of me. I beat Paolino, in the tournament at Pressburg. My game on that occasion has gone down in history. I should certainly have