The Man Who Collected Machen and Other Weird Tales by Mark Samuels

of blood, death and the thunder of artillery. But when Von Drost informed them that their company was to be honoured by redeployment on the Western Front, in order to crush the British pig-dogs, Kugel decided to desert and follow the example the Russians had set. It was soon apparent to him that he was alone in his resolve. Although just as sick of war, his fellow soldiers had no stomach for revolution and would, like all good Germans, follow the orders of their superiors. And so he had fled alone.
    Not more than five or six minutes of daylight left now, Kugel calculated. It was getting darker and darker. Had he not stopped to strike a match and light a cigarette he would have certainly missed the pathway. It was partially obscured by an enormous bramble bush. Kugel grinned in relief. He sucked the cigarette smoke into his lungs and tossed the match aside once it stung his fingers. He’d got a good enough glimpse for his purposes. The pathway ran down the side of the hill. It had been hacked out of the undergrowth and, although not well maintained, was evidently still in regular use.
    He was glad of his sturdy boots as he scrambled down the path, for they granted him a sure footing in the gloom. But he was gladder still when, at last, the forest began to clear and he saw a church steeple, shadow-like against the sky, and less than a mile away across a field. So black was the nightfall that only when he began to cross this field, surveying it close at hand, did he notice its grim desolation. The grass underfoot was sparse and blighted, and grew in isolated patches amidst the dusty soil. All the life appeared to have been drained out of the vegetation, leaving a ghostly scrubland behind.
    Kugel had been making for the church steeple when he saw light shining through a casement window from another building just off to the right. He turned towards the source of the illumination, drawn by the possibility of more comfortable shelter and discovered a dilapidated two-storey house, set back from the field and abutting upon an adjacent track. A lantern had been hung in the front window, its wick turned up full. Kugel chuckled to himself at the thought of the folk that dwelt in this remote part of the country, cut off from civilisation and harbouring irrational fears that had been handed down uncritically from generation to generation. He pulled the rifle from his shoulder and used its butt to hammer a summons on the door. If need be, Kugel decided, he would take occupancy of the house for the night by force, commandeer what provisions he could find, and then carry on eastward at dawn.
    “ Who’s there?” an elderly male voice called out.
    “ A soldier of the Imperial army,” Kugel shouted back, “open this door without delay.”
    The portal opened a fraction and a pair of rheumy eyes looked Kugel up and down.
    “ I cannot admit you,” the ancient said, “I have a guest and to disturb the circle could be hazardous to us all.”
    Kugel was astonished by the old man’s idiocy. In order to provide emphasis to his reply he brought the butt of his rifle up in front of the man’s face as if about to strike him down.
    “ This is not a request, it is a command,” Kugel hissed.
    “ Then you had better come in, and I bid you welcome.”
    The old man bowed. He was bald, thin, and sported a little white moustache. His skin was horribly wrinkled. Kugel addressed him again, more civilly this time:
    “ Private Hanns Kugel, at your service.”
    “ Steinberger, likewise. And the rest of your company? Surely you are not alone?”
    “ My company is scouting this area. They are hours away from here.” Kugel was not surprised that the old man appeared so eager to know the whereabouts of any more soldiers. He must have realised that the military have little compunction when it comes to taking what they want from the homes of gentlefolk. And the more soldiers, the greater their need.
    “ Please wait here,” Steinberger said, “as I