The Beetle by Richard Marsh (read e books online free txt) š
Description
The Beetle was published in 1897, the same year as Draculaāand outsold it six to one that year. Like Dracula, the novel is steeped in the evil mysteries of an ancient horror: in this case, a mysterious ancient Egyptian creature bent on revenge.
The story is told through the sequential points of view of a group of middle-class Victorians who find themselves enmeshed in the creatureās plot. The creature, in the guise of an Egyptian man, appears in London seeking revenge against a popular member of Parliament. They soon find out that it can shape shift into other things, including women; that it can control minds and use hypnosis; and that it wonāt stop at anything to get the revenge it seeks. The heroes are soon caught in a whirlwind of chase scenes, underground laboratories, secret cults, and more as they race to foil the creature.
While The Beetle didnāt earn the lasting popularity of Stokerās counterpart, it remains a strange and unique morsel of Victorian sensationalist fiction.
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- Author: Richard Marsh
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āFanchette!ā āIs there something with us in the room?ā
āSomething with us in the room?ā āMademoiselle?ā āWhat does mademoiselle mean?ā
She looked disturbedā āwhich was, on the whole, excusable. Fanchette is not exactly a strong-minded person, and not likely to be much of a support when a support was most required. If I was going to play the fool, I would be my own audience. So I sent her off.
āDid you not hear me tell you that I will undress myself?ā āyou are to go to bed.ā
She went to bedā āwith quite sufficient willingness.
The instant that she was out of the room I wished that she was back again. Such a paroxysm of fear came over me, that I was incapable of stirring from the spot on which I stood, and it was all I could do to prevent myself from collapsing in heap on the floor. I had never, till then, had reason to suppose that I was a coward. Nor to suspect myself of being the possessor of ānerves.ā I was as little likely as anyone to be frightened by shadows. I told myself that the whole thing was sheer absurdity, and that I should be thoroughly ashamed of my own conduct when the morning came. āIf you donāt want to be self-branded as a contemptible idiot, Marjorie Lindon, you will call up your courage, and these foolish fears will fly.ā But it would not do. Instead of flying, they grew worse. I became convincedā āand the process of conviction was terrible beyond words!ā āthat there actually was something with me in the room, some invisible horrorā āwhich, at any moment, might become visible. I seemed to understandā āwith a sense of agony which nothing can describe!ā āthat this thing which was with me was with Paul. That we were linked together by the bond of a common, and a dreadful terror. That, at that moment, that same awful peril which was threatening me, was threatening him, and that I was powerless to move a finger in his aid. As with a sort of second sight, I saw out of the room in which I was, into another, in which Paul was crouching on the floor, covering his face with his hands, and shrieking. The vision came again and again with a degree of vividness of which I cannot give the least conception. At last the horror, and the reality of it, goaded me to frenzy. āPaul! Paul!ā I screamed. As soon as I found my voice, the vision faded. Once more I understood that, as a matter of simple fact, I was standing in my own bedroom; that the lights were burning brightly; that I had not yet commenced to remove a particle of dress. āAm I going mad?ā I wondered. I had heard of insanity taking extraordinary forms, but what could have caused softening of the brain in me I had not the faintest notion. Surely that sort of thing does not come on oneā āin such a wholly unmitigated form!ā āwithout the slightest noticeā āand that my mental faculties were sound enough a few minutes back I was certain. The first premonition of anything of the kind had come upon me with the melodramatic utterance of the man I had found in the street.
āPaul Lessingham!ā āBeware!ā āThe Beetle!ā
The words were ringing in my ears.ā āWhat was that?ā āThere was a buzzing sound behind me. I turned to see what it was. It moved as I moved, so that it was still at my back. I swung, swiftly, right round on my heels. It still eluded meā āit was still behind.
I stood and listenedā āwhat was it that hovered so persistently at my back?
The buzzing was distinctly audible. It was like the humming of a bee. Orā ācould it be a beetle?
My whole life long I have had an antipathy to beetlesā āof any sort or kind. I have objected neither to rats nor mice, nor cows, nor bulls, nor snakes, nor spiders, nor toads, nor lizards, nor any of the thousand and one other creatures, animate or otherwise, to which so many people have a rooted, and, apparently, illogical dislike. My petā āand onlyā āhorror has been beetles. The mere suspicion of a harmless, and, I am told, necessary cockroach, being within several feet has always made me seriously uneasy. The thought that a great, winged beetleā āto me, a flying beetle is the horror of horrors!ā āwas with me in my bedroomā āgoodness alone knew how it had got there!ā āwas unendurable. Anyone who had beheld me during the next few moments would certainly have supposed I was deranged. I turned and twisted, sprang from side to side, screwed myself into impossible positions, in order to obtain a glimpse of the detested visitantā ābut in vain. I could hear it all the time; but see itā ānever! The buzzing sound was continually behind.
The terror returnedā āI began to think that my brain must be softening. I dashed to the bed. Flinging myself on my knees, I tried to pray. But I was speechlessā āwords would not come; my thoughts would not take shape. I all at once became conscious, as I struggled to ask help of God, that I was wrestling with something evilā āthat if I only could ask kelp of Him, evil would flee. But I could not. I was helplessā āovermastered. I hid my face in the bedclothes, cramming my fingers into my ears. But the buzzing was behind me all the time.
I sprang up, striking out, blindly, wildly, right and left, hitting nothingā āthe buzzing always came from a point at which, at the moment, I was not aiming.
I tore off my clothes. I had on a lovely frock which I had worn
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