Short Ghost and Horror Collection 002

Accessory Before The Fact

By Algernon Blackwood

At the moorland cross-roads Martin stood examining the sign-post for several minutes in some
bewilderment. The names on the four arms were not what he expected, distances were not given,
and his map, he concluded with impatience, must be hopelessly out of date. Spreading it against
the post, he stooped to study it more closely. The wind blew the corners flapping against his face.
The small print was almost indecipherable in the fading light. It appeared, however — as well as
he could make out — that two miles back he must have taken the wrong turning.

He remembered that turning. The path had looked inviting; he had hesitated a moment, then
followed it, caught by the usual lure of walkers that it "might prove a short cut." The short-cut
snare is old as human nature. For some minutes he studied the sign-post and the map alternately.
Dusk was falling, and his knapsack had grown heavy. He could not make the two guides tally,
however, and a feeling of uncertainty crept over his mind. He felt oddly baffled, frustrated. His
thought grew thick. Decision was most difficult. "I'm muddled," he thought; "I must be tired," as
at length he chose the most likely arm. "Sooner or later it will bring me to an inn, though not the
one I intended." He accepted his walker's luck, and started briskly. The arm read, "Over Litacy
Hill" in small, fine letters that danced and shifted every time he looked at them; but the name
was not discoverable on the map. It was, however, inviting like the short cut. A similar impulse
again directed his choice. Only this time it seemed more insistent, almost urgent.

And he became aware, then, of the exceeding loneliness of the country about him. The road
for a hundred yards went straight, then curved like a white river running into space; the deep
blue-green of heather lined the banks, spreading upwards through the twilight; and occasional
small pines stood solitary here and there, all unexplained. The curious adjective, having made its
appearance, haunted him. So many things that afternoon were similarly — unexplained: the short
cut, the darkened map, the names on the sign-post, his own erratic impulses, and the growing
strange confusion that crept upon his spirit. The entire country-side needed explanation, though
perhaps "interpretation" was the truer word. Those little lonely trees had made him see it. Why
had he lost his way so easily? Why did he suffer vague impressions to influence his direction?
Why was he here — exactly here? And why did he go now "over Litacy Hill"?

Then, by a green field that shone like a thought of daylight amid the darkness of the moor, he
saw a figure lying in the grass. It was a blot upon the landscape, a mere huddled patch of dirty
rags, yet with a certain horrid picturesqueness too; and his mind — though his German was of the
schoolroom order — at once picked out the German equivalents as against the English. Lump and
Lumpen flashed across his brain most oddly. They seemed in that moment right, and so
expressive, almost like onomatopceic words, if that were possible of sight. Neither "rags" nor
"rascal" would have fitted what he saw. The adequate description was in German.

Here was a clue tossed up by the part of him that did not reason. But it seems he missed it.
And the next minute the tramp rose to a sitting posture and asked the time of evening. In German
he asked it. And Martin, answering without a second' s hesitation, gave it, also in German, "halb
sieben " — half-past six. The instinctive guess was accurate. A glance at his watch when he looked
a moment later proved it. He heard the man say, with the covert insolence of tramps, "T'ank you;
much opliged." For Martin had not shown his watch — another intuition subconsciously obeyed.

He quickened his pace along that lonely road, a curious jumble of thoughts and feelings

surging through him. He had somehow known the question would come, and come in German.
Yet it flustered and dismayed him. Another thing had also flustered and dismayed him. He had
expected it in the same queer fashion: it was right. For when the ragged brown thing rose to ask
the question, a part of it remained lying on the grass — another brown, dirty thing. There were
two tramps. And he saw both faces clearly. Behind the untidy beards, and below the old slouch
hats, he caught the look of unpleasant, clever faces that watched him closely while he passed.
The eyes followed him. For a second he looked straight into those eyes, so that he could not fail
to know them. And he understood, quite horridly, that both faces were too sleek, refined, and
cunning for those of ordinary tramps. The men were not really tramps at all. They were
disguised.

"How covertly they watched me!" was his thought, as he hurried along the darkening road,
aware in dead earnestness now of the loneliness and desolation of the moorland all about him.

Uneasy and distressed, he increased his pace. Midway in thinking what an unnecessarily
clanking noise his nailed boots made upon the hard white road, there came upon him with a rash
together the company of these things that haunted him as "unexplained." They brought a single
definite message: That all this business was not really meant for him at all, and hence his
confusion and bewilderment; that he had intruded into someone else's scenery, and was
trespassing upon another's map of life. By some wrong inner turning he had interpolated his per-
son into a group of foreign forces which operated in the little world of someone else.
Unwittingly, somewhere, he had crossed the threshold, and now was fairly in — a trespasser, an
eavesdropper, a Peeping Torn. He was listening, peeping; overhearing things he had no right to
know, because they were intended for another. Like a ship at sea he was intercepting wireless
messages he could not properly interpret, because his Receiver was not accurately tuned to their
reception. And more — these messages were warnings!

Then fear dropped upon him like the night. He was caught in a net of delicate, deep forces he
could not manage, knowing neither their origin nor purpose. He had walked into some huge
psychic trap elaborately planned and baited, yet calculated for another than himself. Something
had lured him in, something in the landscape, the time of day, his mood. Owing to some
undiscovered weakness in himself he had been easily caught. His fear slipped easily into terror.

What happened next happened with such speed and concentration that it all seemed crammed
into a moment. At once and in a heap it happened. It was quite inevitable. Down the white road
to meet him a man came swaying from side to side in drunkenness quite obviously feigned — a
tramp; and while Martin made room for him to pass, the lurch changed in a second to attack, and
the fellow was upon him. The blow was sudden and terrific, yet even while it fell Martin was
aware that behind him rushed a second man, who caught his legs from under him and bore him
with a thud and crash to the ground. Blows rained then; he saw a gleam of something shining; a
sudden deadly nausea plunged him into utter weakness where resistance was impossible.
Something of fire entered his throat, and from his mouth poured a thick sweet thing that choked
him. The world sank far away into darkness. . . . Yet through all the horror and confusion ran the
trail of two clear thoughts: he realised that the first tramp had sneaked at a fast double through
the heather and so come down to meet him; and that something heavy was torn from fastenings
that clipped it tight and close beneath his clothes against his body. . . .

Abruptly then the darkness lifted, passed utterly away. He found himself peering into the
map against the signpost. The wind was flapping the corners against his cheek, and he was
poring over names that now he saw quite clear. Upon the arms of the sign-post above were those
he had expected to find, and the map recorded them quite faithfully. All was accurate again and

as it should be. He read the name of the village he had meant to make — it was plainly visible in
the dusk, two miles the distance given. Bewildered, shaken, unable to think of anything, he
stuffed the map into his pocket unfolded, and hurried forward like a man who has just wakened
from an awful dream that had compressed into a single second all the detailed misery of some
prolonged, oppressive nightmare.

He broke into a steady trot that soon became a run; the perspiration poured from him; his
legs felt weak, and his breath was difficult to manage. He was only conscious of the
overpowering desire to get away as fast as possible from the sign-post at the cross-roads where
the dreadful vision had flashed upon him. For Martin, accountant on a holiday, had never
dreamed of any world of psychic possibilities. The entire thing was torture. It was worse than a
"cooked" balance of the books that some conspiracy of clerks and directors proved at his
innocent door. He raced as though the country-side ran crying at his heels. And always still ran
with him the incredible conviction that none of this was really meant for himself at all. He had
overheard the secrets of another. He had taken the warning for another into himself, and so
altered its direction. He had thereby prevented its right delivery. It all shocked him beyond
words. It dislocated the machinery of his just and accurate soul. The warning was intended for
another, who could not — would not — now receive it.

The physical exertion, however, brought at length a more comfortable reaction and some
measure of composure. With the lights in sight, he slowed down and entered the village at a
reasonable pace. The inn was reached, a bedroom inspected and engaged, and supper ordered
with the solid comfort of a large Bass to satisfy an unholy thirst and complete the restoration of
balance. The unusual sensations largely passed away, and the odd feeling that anything in his
simple, wholesome world required explanation was no longer present. Still with a vague
uneasiness about him, though actual fear quite gone, he went into the bar to smoke an after-
supper pipe and chat with the natives, as his pleasure was upon a holiday, and so saw two men
leaning upon the counter at the far end with their backs towards him. He saw their faces instantly
in the glass, and the pipe nearly slipped from between his teeth. Clean-shaven, sleek, clever
faces — and he caught a word or two as they talked over their drinks — German words. Well
dressed they were, both men, with nothing about them calling for particular attention; they might
have been two tourists holiday- making like himself in tweeds and walking-boots. And they
presently paid for their drinks and went out. He never saw them face to face at all; but the sweat
broke out afresh all over him, a feverish rush of heat and ice together ran about his body; beyond
question he recognised the two tramps, this time not disguised — not yet disguised.

He remained in his corner without moving, puffing violently at an extinguished pipe, gripped
helplessly by the return of that first vile terror. It came again to him with an absolute clarity of
certainty that it was not with himself they had to do, these men, and, further, that he had no right
in the world to interfere. He had no locus standi at all; it would be immoral. . . even if the
opportunity came. And the opportunity, he felt, would come. He had been an eavesdropper, and
had come upon private information of a secret kind that he had no right to make use of, even that
good might come — even to save life. He sat on in his corner, terrified and silent, waiting for the
thing that should happen next.

But night came without explanation. Nothing happened. He slept soundly. There was no
other guest at the inn but an elderly man, apparently a tourist like himself. He wore gold-rimmed
glasses, and in the morning Martin overheard him asking the landlord what direction he should
take for Litacy Hill. His teeth began then to chatter and a weakness came into his knees. "You
turn to the left at the cross-roads," Martin broke in before the landlord could reply; "you'll see

the sign-post about two miles from here, and after that it's a matter of four miles more." How in
the world did he know, flashed horribly through him. "I'm going that way myself," he was
saying next; "I'll go with you for a bit — if you don't mind!" The words came out impulsively
and ill-considered; of their own accord they came. For his own direction was exactly opposite.
He did not want the man to go alone. The stranger, however, easily evaded his offer of
companionship. He thanked him with the remark that he was starting later in the day. . . . They
were standing, all three, beside the horse-trough in front of the inn, when at that very moment a
tramp, slouching along the road, looked up and asked the time of day. And it was the man with
the gold-rimmed glasses who told him.

"T'ank you; much opliged," the tramp replied, passing on with his slow, slouching gait,
while the landlord, a talkative fellow, proceeded to remark upon the number of Germans that
lived in England and were ready to swell the Teutonic invasion which he, for his part, deemed
imminent.

But Martin heard it not. Before he had gone a mile upon his way he went into the woods to
fight his conscience all alone. His feebleness, his cowardice, were surely criminal. Real anguish
tortured him. A dozen times he decided to go back upon his steps, and a dozen times the singular
authority that whispered he had no right to interfere prevented him. How could he act upon
knowledge gained by eavesdropping? How interfere in the private business of another's hidden
life merely because he had overheard, as at the telephone, its secret dangers? Some inner
confusion prevented straight thinking altogether. The stranger would merely think him mad. He
had no "fact" togoupon. ... He smothered a hundred impulses . . . and finally went on his way
with a shaking, troubled heart.

The last two days of his holiday were ruined by doubts and questions and alarms — all
justified later when he read of the murder of a tourist upon Litacy Hill. The man wore gold-
rimmed glasses, and carried in a belt about his person a large sum of money. His throat was cut.
And the police were hard upon the trail of a mysterious pair of tramps, said to be — Germans.