Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 33, No. 1, January, 1988

Guileford’s Revenge by Harold D. Kaiser

Much obliged to ye. That goes down like mother’s milk, it does. You’re wanting to know about Guileford’s revenge, you say? Where did you hear about that? From that blabbermouth Maude Coonan who runs the B&B where you’re staying, no doubt. Little does she know, but she’s always after finding out. But if I was you, I wouldn’t ask too much on that subject. It’s not very popular here in Brogan’s. In truth, it takes only a mention of Dennis Guileford in the snug here to start a shudder flickering around the room and hands clutching for the restorative. Even Brogan hisself, usually a good sort, gets tight-faced at the mention and might tell you that you would be better off elsewhere.

Again, you say? Don’t mind if I do. And seeing you’re a gentlemen, I’ll tell you what little I know of that terrible affair. You see, I’m one of the regulars, and all, but through a slight misunderstanding I was in the nick at the time and wasn’t actually here when the Revenge happened. Which was just as well.

At first Brogan wouldn’t talk about it, even to me. But one night after the place was closed, I stayed behind to talk to him about fixing the roof. Then we got to jawing and dipping into his private stock and I finally got him to tell me what happened.

First off, you have to know that Dennis Guileford. was a runt; a dark, skinny lad, about five foot six. And, as you can see, the general run of clutter here is built along the lines of an earth remover and, believe you me, has brains to match. So when the place was crowded you usually had to look under somebody’s armpit to find Dennis. And you can imagine what that was like. But he was tough — aye, and smart. Keen as a winter wind. That and his size was his downfall.

You see, his folks, old Tom and Nora, are like the general run around here. Tom is at least six feet and fourteen stone. Nora bore eleven little ones like they was kittens and can fling a skillet with the best of them. Six of the boys grew up to be images of old Tom. The four girls are good healthy lasses and a couple of them are real beauties, too. You should see Rosemary, her that went to Dublin and got some bit parts on the telly until she snagged that rich old builder and gave her folks a life of ease. But that left poor Dennis odd man out, and even when he was a young lad there were more than a few behind-the-hand comments about that.

Of course, Dennis must have heard some of them. But he never let on, just minded his own business. He picked up his school work real quick and read a lot, which was a puzzlement to old Tom, who could barely read his own name when he got done signing it — which wasn’t often. You have to give the old man credit, though. At that time they were poor as church mice and a shilling meant bread for a week, but he kept Dennis in school as long as he was able. Dennis learned to do numbers and a little of what you call accounting, so when he finally had to leave school he was able to get work keeping the books for a half-dozen of the small businesses in these parts, including Brogan’s. And a smart job he did, too. He could fuddle the tax man with the best of them and nary a whisper of scandal.

Now, keeping Brogan’s books brought him into the pub quite a bit and what could be more natural than after the accounts were done he would hang about and have a pint or two.

So, you see, it was not too long before we began to notice something a wee bit strange. When he was sober, he was pleasant and mild as could be. But after a few pints, his dark face would flush and, especially if some clod would make a remark about his size, he would start to mutter some strange things.

Well, what it came down to was that he had been listening to the old wives’ tales and doing some reading of the legends and had come to believe that he was a changeling.

What? You know about changelings, don’t you? Ach, you Americans.

Oh, well now — if you believe in the old tales — when the fairies see a bonnie newborn babe that they’d like to have for their own, they creep in and steal it away. But, like the magpies, they leave something in its place. Sometimes it’s just a carved wooden figure. Sometimes it’s an old and sick member of the tribe who needs more care than they are willing or able to give. More often than not, it’s one of their own babes who’s ugly (to their eyes) or weak. Then the human mother would take it in and bring up the babe as her own. Even if she did suspect, she would still care for the fairy babe in hopes that her own might be returned, or at least get good treatment from the fairies.

Of course, to believe all that you have to believe in fairies. Many’s the poor babe who was thought to be a changeling but was just a throwback to some forgotten ancestor or a poor thing that caught a touch of the infantile paralysis or suchlike.

Anyhow, it soon became clear that Dennis thought he was one of those changelings. He felt that would explain his appearance and the slight limp he’s had all his life. When he was sober, he had sense enough to keep his mouth shut about it. But when he had more Guinness than was good for him, his tongue would start flapping at both ends and out it would come as to how he was a fairy babe who had been changed at birth for the Guileford. Worse, he began thinking that he was still in touch with the fairies and could feel them about and hear their voices.

Well, you can imagine the reaction of the boys to anyone claiming to be in touch with the fairies. Since they mostly liked Dennis — and still feared old Tom’s fist — they tried to leave him alone. But then he would start in and soon it would be too much for them. They’d take to joshing him and the more they did the more he would drink and the more he would drink the more he would blather on about it. Sometimes it would get pretty heavy and Brogan would have to pound on the bar with his blackthorn to settle things down a bit.

Then when Dennis would sober up and realize what he had been saying, he would go around with a hang-dog look about him and hardly give you the time of day for a bit.

So it went on like this for a few months until the night it all happened.

Ah, it fair makes my mouth go dry and my throat stick closed when I think on it.

Another pint of Guinness, you say. Well now, that would not be at all amiss and I thank you.

So then, as I was saying — now you have to remember I was not there at all and I’m just passing along what I was told by Brogan and, later, some of the others. So as they say, I cannot say yea or nay to it.

Anyhow. It was a Friday night, you see, and since the weather had come warm, many a powerful thirst had been worked up and the pub was fair crowded. Dennis, I’m told, had just finished Brogan’s books for the quarter and all them dry figures had put his throat in an awful state, so he was downing the stuff like it was well water. Sure enough, soon he starts muttering how he had heard the fairies talking just the night before and had even seen their lights in the back garden. Well, of course, at first everyone tried to ignore him, as by now they were getting pretty well sick of it and they knew it would just lead to another argument.

But the fool kept on, getting louder and louder, until finally Hanihan, who is shorter on brains and temper than most, turns to him and says:

“So you heard the fairies again last night, did you?”

“That I did.”

“And they were running around the bottom of your garden, were they?”

“That they were.”

“And where were you when all this was going on?”

“I was standing in the kitchen door, getting a breath of air.”

“Was there anyone else about?”

“Just me mom and Johnny.”

“And they saw them, too, did they?”

“Of course not. They never do.”

“What? You’re the only one that sees them? Now how is that?”

“I’ve told you before, you big lump, it’s because I’m a changeling.”

Hanihan snickered.

“So you’re a fairy.”

Dennis hesitated, then squared his thin shoulders and drew up his whole five foot six.

“That I am.”

Hanihan let out a loud guffaw and turned to the room.

“Boys, we’ve got here tonight a genuine fairy in our midst.”

He turned back to Dennis.

“Prove it. Let’s see you flap your wings and fly around the room. Or are you just the ordinary pouf kind?”

Well, that did it. One word led to ten more and finally Dennis grabs a glass from the bar, breaks the edge off it, and tries to do some plastic surgery on Hanihan’s ugly face. It would have been an improvement, but of course they couldn’t let it happen. So a couple of the boys picks Dennis up, drops him on the floor, and sits on him, him yelling bloody murder all the while.

“So what do we do now?” says Murphy. “I can’t keep me bum on his face all night. For one thing, he’s starting to bite.”

They all knew he was a stubborn little runt and if they let him up he would just start right in again. Brogan looked thoughtful and fingered his blackthorn wistfully. Then he shook his head and sighed.

“Well, let’s put him down in the beer cellar for a bit. Maybe a couple of hours communing with the kegs will sober him up enough so he’ll listen to reason.”

So two of them picked him up, him still trying to do what damage he could, and, led by Brogan, took him down the stairs, dumped him in the beer cellar, and snapped the padlock on it.

Now, I want you to be clear on the beer cellar. It’s below ground, hollowed out of the dirt and walled with rough stone so as to stay cool. The door is two inch oak with a stout padlock to which only Brogan has the key. The ceiling is the floor of this pub, heavy beams and two inch planks to bear the weight of the sixteen stone customers without a creak or groan. So they locked him in and tramped back upstairs firm in the belief that Dennis would stay put for a while.

They could still hear him faintly through the floor, yelling to be let out and saying what he would do if he got out. And the language he was using, it was a good thing there were no ladies present. Not that there ever was in Brogan’s.

“If he starts fooling with the kegs, I’ll have to go down and lay him out,” says Brogan, with a bit of hopefulness in his voice.

But after a few more bellows, Dennis seemed to realize that the only thing he was doing was fraying his throat and he pretty much shut up, except for an occasional word that you wouldn’t want to hear in church.

So the boys settled down to their pints and a quiet debate on the merits of the teams in Saturday’s soccer game.

Well then, it was all the more startling when Dennis’s voice suddenly surged through the floor like the wood wasn’t there.

“The fairies! They’re coming. They’re coming!”

“Damn,” says Brogan.

Then there was one loud banshee scream and utter silence.

“Mother of God,” says Brogan. “That ain’t human.”

And he runs downstairs with everyone else at his heels. His hands were actually trembling as he unlocked the padlock and pushed open the door, the rest crowding in after him.

What a sight! The room was filled with a green glow which came from a slowly fading circle on the far wall. Not only that, but Brogan, Hanihan, and Paddy McDermott all insist that as they looked at the circle, they could see sort of a tunnel and a room at the other end with television sets and panels with dials and things on them. And poor Dennis in this room, screaming but no sounds coming out. That’s what they said, but I wouldn’t know about that. Then the green circle closed down and the room went dark.

Well sir, for once that whole bunch of boyos had the bejabbers scared out of them. They stood stock still and breathed heavily until Brogan finally shook himself and snapped on the light. Then they searched that cellar from top to bottom and end to end, but there was nary a trace of Dennis Guile-ford nor clue as to how he had got out of there. And there’s been never a sign of him since.

Yes sir, that was quite a night, it was.

What about the Revenge, you say? Right. Well now, after searching the room, they all trooped back up to the bar, not looking at each other and not wanting to say what they had seen. And there they stood, like a bunch of little lost puppy dogs, not knowing what to do next.

Finally Brogan, who deep down had really liked little Dennis, went to the taps, pulled twelve pints of the best, and lined them up on the bar.

“Here, boys, take a glass. The least we can do is to drink to poor Dennis.”

They each took a glass and solemnly raised it.

“Here’s to Dennis Guileford. May he prosper wherever he is.”

Well, twelve pints started down twelve dry throats and suddenly there was lager spraying all over the room and sputtering and cursing coming from all corners.

For, you see, the stuff had turned bad. Sour as vinegar. Undrinkable. Terrible.

So Brogan and Murphy and Hanihan headed back to the cellar. To make short of it, they ended up tapping all ten kegs that were there and all of them were bad. Hanihan claims that after they had tapped the last and were standing around looking at each other, trying not to cry, he heard a ghostly laugh in the air, but I don’t believe that at all.

So they went back upstairs and broke the news. You can imagine the pitiful sight. Up here were twelve stalwarts who had been through a terrible experience and had developed an awesome thirst and down there were ten kegs with not a good pint amongst them. I tell you it was so bad that Brogan did something till then unheard of. He stood whiskies all around. Small ones to be sure, but still—

And as they lifted their glasses and drank off, you can be sure there was no toast to Dennis Guileford to be heard.

Later on, Brogan even got this chemist down from the brewery, but the man just shook his head and muttered something about little waves or some such nonsense and went back to Dublin as fast as he could and so much for him.

So now you know why it’s not wise to mention too loud the name of Dennis Guileford on these here premises.

Another one, you say? That would be lovely, but I’d better not. And I’d best be getting along home. Since that last little misunderstanding with the law, Susan (that’s me dear wife) has taken to be a little sharp about such matters. So I’ll bid ye good night and all.