“What was the quarrel about?”
“I tell you straight, bor, I have got the wind up proper about this here farm. They things as live in the pond will eat me and suck me up like they done Grubby if I stay here any more. So I run off when Joe Grendon weren’t looking, and I come in here to gather up my traps and my bits and leave here at once. This whole place i evil, a bed of evil, and it ought to be destroyed.
Hell can’t be worse than this here farm!”
As he spoke, he pulled himself to his feet and stood, keeping his balance with Gregory’s aid. Grunting, he made his way over to the staircase.
“Bert,” Gregory said, “supposing we rush Grendon and lay him out. We can then get him in the cart and all leave together.”
Neckland turned to stare at him, his face hidden in shadows, nursing his shoulder with one hand.
“You try it!” he said, and then he turned and went steadily up the stairs.
Gregory stood where he was, keeping one eye on the window. He had come to the farm without any clear notion in his head, but now that the idea had been formulated, he saw that it was up to him to try and remove Grendon from his farm.
He felt obliged to do it; for although he had lost his former regard for Grendon, a sort of fascination for the man held him, and he was incapable of leaving any human being, however perverse, to face alone the alien horrors of the farm. It occurred to him that he might get help from the distant houses, Dereham Cottages, if only the farmer were rendered in one way or another unable to pepper the intruders with shot.
The machine house possessed only one high window, and that was barred. It was built of brick and had a stout door which could be barred and locked from the outside. Perhaps it would be possible to lure Grendon into there; outside aid could then be obtained.
Not without apprehension, Gregory went to the open door and peered out into the confused dark. He stared anxiously at the ground for sight of a footstep more sinister than the farmer’s, but there was no indication that the Aurigans were active. He stepped into the yard.
He had not gone two yards before a woman’s screams rang out. The sound seemed to clamp an icy grip about Gregory’s ribs, and into his mind came a picture of poor mad Mrs.
Grendon. Then he recognized the voice, in its few shouted words, as Nancy’s. Even before the sound cut off, he began to pelt down the dark side of the house as fast as he could run.
Only later did he realize how he seemed to be running against a great army of animal cries. Loudest was the babel of the pigs; every swine seemed to have some message deep and nervous and indecipherable to deliver to an unknown source; and it was to the sties that Gregory ran, swerving past the giant screens under the high and sickly light.
The noise in the sties was deafening. Every animal was attacking its pen with its sharp hooves. One light swung over the middle pen. With its help, Gregory saw immediately how terrible was the change that had come over the farm since his last visit. The sows had swollen enormously and their great ears clattered against their cheeks like boards. Their hirsute backs curved almost to the rafters of their prison.
Grendon was at the far entrance. In his arms he held the unconscious form of his daughter. A sack of pig feed lay scattered by his feet. He had one pen gate half open and was trying to thrust his way in against the flank of a pig whose mighty shoulder came almost level with his. He turned and stared at Gregory with a face whose blankness was more terrifying than any expression of rage.
There was another presence in the place. A pen gate near Gregory swung open. The two sows wedged in the narrow sty gave out a terrible falsetto squealing, clearly scenting the presence of an unappeasable hunger. They kicked out blindly, and all the other animals plunged with a sympathetic fear.