Caterpillar

Caterpillar is a scary short story by EF Benson about a man who has dreadful visions of ghostly mutant caterpillars crawling over the bed of his friend. Only much later, does he learn the terrible fate of the man who’d previously stayed in his friend’s room.

Caterpillar

I saw a month or two ago in an Italian paper that the Villa Cascana, in which I once stayed, had been pulled down, and that a manufactory of some sort was in process of erection on its site.

There is therefore no longer any reason for refraining from writing of those things which I
myself saw (or imagined I saw) in a certain room and on a certain landing of the villa in
question, nor from mentioning the circumstances which followed, which may or may not
(according to the opinion of the reader) throw some light on or be somehow connected with this
experience.

The Villa Cascana was in all ways but one a perfectly delightful house, yet, if it were
standing now, nothing in the world — I use the phrase in its literal sense — would induce me to
set foot in it again, for I believe it to have been haunted in a very terrible and practical manner.
Most ghosts, when all is said and done, do not do much harm; they may perhaps terrify, but the
person whom they visit usually gets over their visitation. They may on the other hand be entirely friendly and beneficent. But the appearances in the Villa Cascana were not beneficent, and had they made their “visit” in a very slightly different manner, I do not suppose I should have got over it any more than Arthur Inglis did.

The house stood on an ilex-clad hill not far from Sestri di Levante on the Italian Riviera,
looking out over the iridescent blues of that enchanted sea, while behind it rose the pale green
chestnut woods that climb up the hillsides till they give place to the pines that, black in contrast with them, crown the slopes. All round it the garden in the luxuriance of mid-spring bloomed and was fragrant, and the scent of magnolia and rose, borne on the salt freshness of the winds from the sea, flowed like a stream through the cool vaulted rooms.

On the ground floor a broad pillared loggia ran round three sides of the house, the top of
which formed a balcony for certain rooms of the first floor. The main staircase, broad and of
grey marble steps, led up from the hall to the landing outside these rooms, which were three in
number, namely, two big sitting-rooms and a bedroom arranged en suite. The latter was
unoccupied, the sitting-rooms were in use. From these the main staircase was continued to the
second floor, where were situated certain bedrooms, one of which I occupied, while from the
other side of the first-floor landing some half-dozen steps led to another suite of rooms, where, at the time I am speaking of, Arthur Inglis, the artist, had his bedroom and studio. Thus the landing outside my bedroom at the top of the house commanded both the landing of the first floor and also the steps that led to Inglis’ rooms. Jim Stanley and his wife, finally (whose guest I was), occupied rooms in another wing of the house, where also were the servants’ quarters.
I arrived just in time for lunch on a brilliant noon of mid-May. The garden was shouting with
colour and fragrance, and not less delightful after my broiling walk up from the marina, should
have been the coming from the reverberating heat and blaze of the day into the marble coolness of the villa. Only (the reader has my bare word for this, and nothing more), the moment I set foot in the house I felt that something was wrong. This feeling, I may say, was quite vague, though very strong, and I remember that when I saw letters waiting for me on the table in the hall I felt certain that the explanation was here: I was convinced that there was bad news of some sort for me. Yet when I opened them I found no such explanation of my premonition: my correspondents all reeked of prosperity. Yet this clear miscarriage of a presentiment did not dissipate my uneasiness. In that cool fragrant house there was something wrong.

I am at pains to mention this because to the general view it may explain that though I am as a
rule so excellent a sleeper that the extinction of my light on getting into bed is apparently
contemporaneous with being called on the following morning, I slept very badly on my first
night in the Villa Cascana. It may also explain the fact that when I did sleep (if it was indeed in
sleep that I saw what I thought I saw) I dreamed in a very vivid and original manner, original,
that is to say, in the sense that something that, as far as I knew, had never previously entered into
my consciousness, usurped it then. But since, in addition to this evil premonition, certain words
and events occurring during the rest of the day might have suggested something of what I
thought happened that night, it will be well to relate them.
After lunch, then, I went round the house with Mrs. Stanley, and during our tour she referred,
it is true, to the unoccupied bedroom on the first floor, which opened out of the room where we
had lunched.
“We left that unoccupied,” she said, “because Jim and I have a charming bedroom and
dressing-room, as you saw, in the wing, and if we used it ourselves we should have to turn the
dining-room into a dressing-room and have our meals downstairs. As it is, however, we have our
little flat there, Arthur Inglis has his little flat in the other passage; and I remembered (aren’t I
extraordinary?) that you once said that the higher up you were in a house the better you were
pleased. So I put you at the top of the house, instead of giving you that room.”
It is true, that a doubt, vague as my uneasy premonition, crossed my mind at this. I did not
see why Mrs. Stanley should have explained all this, if there had not been more to explain. I
allow, therefore, that the thought that there was something to explain about the unoccupied
bedroom was momentarily present to my mind.
The second thing that may have borne on my dream was this.
At dinner the conversation turned for a moment on ghosts. Inglis, with the certainty of
conviction, expressed his belief that anybody who could possibly believe in the existence of
supernatural phenomena was unworthy of the name of an ass. The subject instantly dropped. As
far as I can recollect, nothing else occurred or was said that could bear on what follows.
We all went to bed rather early, and personally I yawned my way upstairs, feeling hideously
sleepy. My room was rather hot, and I threw all the windows wide, and from without poured in
the white light of the moon, and the love-song of many nightingales. I undressed quickly, and got
into bed, but though I had felt so sleepy before, I now felt extremely wide-awake. But I was quite
content to be awake: I did not toss or turn, I felt perfectly happy listening to the song and seeing
the light. Then, it is possible, I may have gone to sleep, and what follows may have been a
dream. I thought, anyhow, that after a time the nightingales ceased singing and the moon sank. I
thought also that if, for some unexplained reason, I was going to lie awake all night, I might as
well read, and I remembered that I had left a book in which I was interested in the dining-room
on the first floor. So I got out of bed, lit a candle, and went downstairs. I went into the room, saw
on a side-table the book I had come to look for, and then, simultaneously, saw that the door into
the unoccupied bedroom was open. A curious grey light, not of dawn nor of moonshine, came
out of it, and I looked in. The bed stood just opposite the door, a big four-poster, hung with
tapestry at the head. Then I saw that the greyish light of the bedroom came from the bed, or
rather from what was on the bed. For it was covered with great caterpillars, a foot or more in
length, which crawled over it. They were faintly luminous, and it was the light from them that
showed me the room. Instead of the sucker-feet of ordinary caterpillars they had rows of pincers
like crabs, and they moved by grasping what they lay on with their pincers, and then sliding their
bodies forward. In colour these dreadful insects were yellowish-grey, and they were covered
with irregular lumps and swellings. There must have been hundreds of them, for they formed a
sort of writhing, crawling pyramid on the bed. Occasionally one fell off on to the floor, with a
soft fleshy thud, and though the floor was of hard concrete, it yielded to the pincerfeet as if it had
been putty, and, crawling back, the caterpillar would mount on to the bed again, to rejoin its
fearful companions. They appeared to have no faces, so to speak, but at one end of them there
was a mouth that opened sideways in respiration.
Then, as I looked, it seemed to me as if they all suddenly became conscious of my presence.
All the mouths, at any rate, were turned in my direction, and next moment they began dropping
off the bed with those soft fleshy thuds on to the floor, and wriggling towards me. For one
second a paralysis as of a dream was on me, but the next I was running upstairs again to my
room, and I remember feeling the cold of the marble steps on my bare feet. I rushed into my
bedroom, and slammed the door behind me, and then — I was certainly wide-awake now — I
found myself standing by my bed with the sweat of terror pouring from me. The noise of the
banged door still rang in my ears. But, as would have been more usual, if this had been mere
nightmare, the terror that had been mine when I saw those foul beasts crawling about the bed or
dropping softly on to the floor did not cease then. Awake, now, if dreaming before, I did not at
all recover from the horror of dream: it did not seem to me that I had dreamed. And until dawn, I
sat or stood, not daring to lie down, thinking that every rustle or movement that I heard was the
approach of the caterpillars. To them and the claws that bit into the cement the wood of the door
was child’s play: steel would not keep them out.@#$ &# ~
But with the sweet and noble return of day the horror vanished: the whisper of wind became
benignant again: the nameless fear, whatever it was, was smoothed out and terrified me no
longer. Dawn broke, hueless at first; then it grew dovecoloured, then the flaming pageant of light
spread over the sky.
The admirable rule of the house was that everybody had breakfast where and when he pleased,
and in consequence it was not till lunch-time that I met any of the other members of our party,
since I had breakfast on my balcony, and wrote letters and other things till lunch. In fact, I got
down to that meal rather late, after the other three had begun. Between my knife and fork there
was a small pill-box of cardboard, and as I sat down Inglis spoke.
“Do look at that,” he said, “since you are interested in natural history. I found it crawling on
my counterpane last night, and I don’t know what it is.”
I think that before I opened the pill-box I expected something of the sort which I found in it.
Inside it, anyhow, was a small caterpillar, greyish-yellow in colour, with curious bumps and
excrescences on its rings. It was extremely active, and hurried round the box, this way and that.
Its feet were unlike the feet of any caterpillar I ever saw: they were like the pincers of a crab. I
looked, and shut the lid down again.#$!@ #$# ~~ #
“No, I don’t know it,” I said, “but it looks rather unwholesome. What are you going to do
with it?”
“Oh, I shall keep it,” said Inglis. “It has begun to spin: I want to see what sort of a moth it
turns into.”
I opened the box again, and saw that these hurrying movements were indeed the beginning of
the spinning of the web of its cocoon. Then Inglis spoke again.
“It has got funny feet, too,” he said. “They are like crabs’ pincers. What’s the Latin for crab?
Oh, yes, Cancer. So in case it is unique, let’s christen it: ‘Cancer Inglisensis.’”
Then something happened in my brain, some momentary piecing together of all that I had
seen or dreamed. Something in his words seemed to me to throw light on it all, and my own
intense horror at the experience of the night before linked itself on to what he had just said. In
effect, I took the box and threw it, caterpillar and all, out of the window. There was a gravel path
just outside, and beyond it, a fountain playing into a basin. The box fell on to the middle of this.
Inglis laughed.~and the$ of ~this was not ~’
“So the students of the occult don’t like solid facts,” he said. “My poor caterpillar!”
The talk went off again at once on to other subjects, and I have only given in detail, as they
happened, these trivialities in order to be sure myself that I have recorded everything that could
have borne on occult subjects or on the subject of caterpillars. But at the moment when I threw
the pill-box into the fountain, I lost my head: my only excuse is that, as is probably plain, the
tenant of it was, in miniature, exactly what I had seen crowded on to the bed in the unoccupied
room. And though this translation of those phantoms into flesh and blood — or whatever it is
that caterpillars are made of — ought perhaps to have relieved the horror of the night, as a matter
of fact it did nothing of the kind. It only made the crawling pyramid that covered the bed in the
unoccupied room more hideously real.
After lunch we spent a lazy hour or two strolling about the garden or sitting in the loggza, and it
must have been about four o’clock when Stanley and I started off to bathe, down the path that led
by the fountain into which I had thrown the pill-box. The water was shallow and clear, and at the
bottom of it I saw its white remains. The water had disintegrated the cardboard, and it had
become no more than a few strips and shreds of sodden paper. The centre of the fountain was a
marble Italian Cupid which squirted the water out of a wine-skin held under its arm. And
crawling up its leg was the caterpillar. Strange and scarcely credible as it seemed, it must have
survived the falling-to-bits of its prison, and made it’s way to shore, and there it was, out of
arm’s reach, weaving and waving this way and that as it evolved its cocoon.
Then, as I looked at it, it seemed to me again that, like the caterpillar I had seen last night, it
saw me, and breaking out of the threads that surrounded it, it crawled down the marble leg of the
Cupid and began swimming like a snake across the water of the fountain towards me. It came
with extraordinary speed (the fact of a caterpillar being able to swim was new to me), and in
another moment was crawling up the marble lip of the basin. Just then Inglis joined us.
“Why, if it isn’t old ‘Cancer Inglisensis’ again,” he said, catching sight of the beast. “What a
tearing hurry it is in!”
We were standing side by side on the path, and when the caterpillar had advanced to within
about a yard of us, it stopped, and began waving again as if in doubt as to the direction in which
it should go. Then it appeared to make up its mind, and crawled on to Inglis’ shoe.
“It likes me best,” he said, “but I don’t really know that I like it. And as it won’t drown I
think perhaps—”
He shook it off his shoe on to the gravel path and trod on it.
All afternoon the air got heavier and heavier with the Sirocco that was without doubt coming up
from the south, and that night again I went up to bed feeling very sleepy; but below my
drowsiness, so to speak, there was the consciousness, stronger than before, that there was
something wrong in the house, that something dangerous was close at hand. But I fell asleep at
once, and — how long after I do not know — either woke or dreamed I awoke, feeling that I
must get up at once, or I should be too late. Then (dreaming or awake) I lay and fought this fear,
telling myself that 1 was but the prey of my own nerves disordered by Sirocco or what not, and
at the same time quite clearly knowing in another part of my mind, so to speak, that every
moment’s delay added to the danger. At last this second feeling became irresistible, and I put on
coat and trousers and went out of my room on to the landing. And then I saw that I had already
delayed too long, and that I was now too late.
The whole of the landing of the first floor below was invisible under the swarm of
caterpillars that crawled there. The folding doors into the sitting-room from which opened the
bedroom where I had seen them last night were shut, but they were squeezing through the cracks
of it and dropping one by one through the keyhole, elongating themselves into mere string as
they passed, and growing fat and lumpy again on emerging. Some, as if exploring, were nosing
about the steps into the passage at the end of which were Inglis’ rooms, others were crawling on
the lowest steps of the staircase that led up to where I stood. The landing, however, was
completely covered with them: I was cut off. And of the frozen horror that seized me when I saw
that I can give no idea in words.
Then at last a general movement began to take place, and they grew thicker on the steps that
led to Inglis’ room. Gradually, like some hideous tide of flesh, they advanced along the passage,
and I saw the foremost, visible by the pale grey luminousness that came from them, reach his
door. Again and again I tried to shout and warn him, in terror all the time that they would turn at
the sound of my voice and mount my stair instead, but for all my efforts I felt that no sound came
from my throat. They crawled along the hinge-crack of his door, passing through as they had
done before, and still I stood there, making impotent efforts to shout to him, to bid him escape
while there was time.(c) 2003 by Horror Masters
At last the passage was completely empty: they had all gone, and at that moment I was
conscious for the first time of the cold of the marble landing on which I stood barefooted. The
dawn was just beginning to break in the Eastern sky.
Six months after I met Mrs. Stanley in a country house in England. We talked on many subjects
and at last she said:
“I don’t think I have seen you since I got that dreadful news about Arthur Inglis a month
ago.”
“I haven’t heard,” said I.
“No? He has got cancer. They don’t even advise an operation, for there is no hope of a cure:
he is riddled with it, the doctors say.”
Now during all these six months I do not think a day had passed on which I had not had in
my mind the dreams (or whatever you like to call them) which I had seen in the Villa Cascana.
“It is awful, is it not?” she continued, “and I feel I can’t help feeling, that he may have—”
“Caught it at the villa?” I asked.
She looked at me in blank surprise.
“Why did you say that?” she asked. “How did you know?”

Then she told me. In the unoccupied bedroom a year before there had been a fatal case of
cancer. She had, of course, taken the best advice and had been told that the utmost dictates of prudence would be obeyed so long as she did not put anybody to sleep in the room, which had also been thoroughly disinfected and newly white-washed and painted. But—

The End.