The Ghost of Don Carlos
Michel Tremblay

Canada has far more grant support for the small press than does the United States, resulting in an extremely active community of publishers. Most of the good ones publish fantasy from time to time; a few do it a great deal. Sono Nis's big star is Michael Bullock, surrealist and macabre short-story artist par excellence. House of Anansi has published Jacques Perron's Selected Tales and Matt Cohen's Columbus and the Fat Lady and Other Stories. And Intermedia Press in Vancouver, B.C., is responsible for Michel Tremblay's Stories for Late Night Drinkers, admirably translated into English by Michael Bullock.
Tremblay is Quebec's best-known fantasist, though better known elsewhere in the world as a playwrite. His stories have been compared to Poe and Lovecraft. What follows is a scary, scary tale.

My Uncle Ivan was famous. Everyone knew him, but no one ever talked about him in public. My Uncle Ivan was a spiritualist. People said he was able to communicate with the souls of the dead, thanks to a gift that some Hindu princess had once given him. In fact, my uncle really did possess this gift. In my childhood -- my uncle disappeared when I was barely fifteen -- I was present at some very extraordinary stances.
Having lost my parents when I was very young, I was taken in, taught about life and cherished by my Uncle Ivan. In spite of all the horrors told about him -- for example, that he was a man who respected neither law nor religion -- my Uncle Ivan was an admirable man in every way.
A very learned man, he was the best teacher imaginable. He was able to explain the most complicated things in a very simple, very clear manner, which enabled me, with the intelligence and few talents God had given me, to make pretty rapid progress in every area and, above all, in the field of science.
My uncle always refused to talk to me about his gift. When I broached the subject he got angry (his angers were terrible) and told me that he would never, absolutely never disclose his secrets to me. I can still hear him shout: "You want to become a medium, like me? Poor, poor child, you don't know what awaits you. You will never become a medium. I shall always refuse to pass on my gift to you, because that's what you want, isn't it? I love you far too much. I love you far too much."
Every Friday evening -- why Friday I don't know -- a group of six to a dozen people would invade the parlor of our house and my uncle would invoke the spirits. I have seen truly tragic things happen during these extraordinary séances. I have seen women faint when they saw their husband, their son, or their mother appear before them. I have seen otherwise very brave men get up and leave the house uttering groans of terror because someone, a dead person from the other world, had touched them. I have even seen a woman in tears passionately embrace the image of her deceased husband. But the most frightening, the most terrible and terrifying thing I ever saw in that accursed parlor was the ghost of Don Carlos.

One day Isabella del Mancio, one of the richest and, it was said, one of the most beautiful women in Spain, came to visit our little country. Polished gentleman that he was, our Prime Minister had prepared a splendid dinner in honor of this noble lady. Unfortunately for him, my Uncle Ivan was invited to the banquet. My Uncle Ivan, despite the fact that he was, as I have said, an admirable man was not at all sociable. He really wasn't made to live in society. His reputation for being unsociable was well founded. My uncle preferred the company of his books and, I can say so without false modesty, my company to that of those "intolerable aristocrats," as he used to call them. Therefore, he was not at all pleased to receive the Prime Minister's invitation. "You ought to feel flattered," I told him, "that a prime minister invites you to dine in the company of the most beautiful woman in Spain." My Uncle Ivan smiled and said gently: "The most beautiful woman in Spain, my boy, is not Isabella del Mancio. The most beautiful woman in Spain..." My uncle closed his eyes and said in a low voice: "I will show her to you one day."
My Uncle Ivan declined the invitation, pleading a severe migraine.
But Isabella del Mancio was crazy about spiritualism. She had heard of my Uncle Ivan and was absolutely determined to make his acquaintance. When she saw that my uncle was not present at the banquet given in her honor she was very annoyed.
Immediately after dinner she demanded that the "sick man" should be sent for. "I have traveled thousands of miles to meet this medium" (here the Prime Minister was somewhat offended); "I finally get to this miserable country and I'm told this gentleman doesn't want to see me on the pretext that he has a severe migraine. Don't people know how to live in this country?"
My Uncle Ivan refused categorically to come to the Prime Minister's house. However, he agreed to invite Isabella del Mancio to the spiritualist séance the following Friday. That evening, before going to bed, my Uncle Ivan made a strange remark. "I hope," he said, "this Isabella del Mancio doesn't know about the ghost of Don Carlos."

The first thing Isabella del Mancio talked about the following Friday was the ghost of Don Carlos.

My uncle paled and his cheek muscles quivered, in him always a sign of intense nervousness. Isabella del Mancio noticed it. This ghost must be very terrible to make my Uncle Ivan turn pale! But I shall try to report as faithfully as possible the conversation that then took place between Isabella del Mancio and my uncle.
"I see," she said, "that Don Carlos' reputation is well established. All the mediums seem to know him and all of them refuse to have dealings with him. But I dare hope that you, who are perhaps the most..."
"I beg you, madam," cut in my uncle, "not to ask me..."
"But Don Carlos can't be so terrible."
"Yes, madam, he is."
"How can you know? Have you seen him?"
"I have seen him. And even if I had not seen him I should still refuse to contact him. The name of Don Carlos is taboo in the domain of spiritualism. One can only make him appear once and... As you said just now, all the mediums know him, but none will have anything to do with him."
"Then how is it that you have seen him?"
"That would be too long a story to tell. Besides, I prefer to forget it. Or at least, I should like to try. Because you cannot forget Don Carlos when you have seen him, even if it was only once in your life."
"Tell me what he is like, at least."
"I beg you, madam, if you continue to ask questions I shall get annoyed."
Isabella let the matter drop. The séance began and was not a great success. Isabella del Mancio had taken part in an incredible number of stances of this sort and nothing could interest her anymore, nothing except the ghost of Don Carlos. My Uncle Ivan could see this clearly and seemed to be prey to great anxiety during the whole evening. The séance ended with the appearance of the soul of Isabella's father. But Isabella didn't even speak to her father; she had seen him so many times since his death that she had nothing more to say to him.
Before the guests left, I saw my uncle go up to the Spanish woman and ask her something. Large beads of sweat were running down his forehead and his voice was weak.
Isabella smiled and came and sat next to me, on a big divan close to the fireplace. "Your uncle seems very much on edge," she said to me teasingly. I felt that something horrible was going to happen because of this woman. That was when I began to hate her.
When everyone had left, my Uncle Ivan joined us on the divan. He took the hands of the beautiful Spanish woman between his own. "I can show the ghost of Don Carlos, if you wish," he said. "I am old now and spiritualism is beginning to bore me. You see, Don Carlos' ghost is the last thing a medium can call up. When he receives his gift, the medium undertakes to communicate with this ghost once in his life, and he is obliged to keep his promise. Afterward, everything is finished for him."
I thought at that moment that a medium lost his gift when he called up Don Carlos' ghost.... Oh, if I had only known! If I had only known!
"My career is drawing to a close," continued my uncle, "and I have decided this evening to crown it by calling up the ghost of Don Carlos. I have insisted on doing it in secret, because you cannot show Don Carlos' ghost to just anyone. You have to have tremendously strong nerves. If you wish to see Don Carlos, you shall see him. But I warn you: what you see will be terrifying." And Isabella burst out laughing. "Nothing can frighten me," she said. "Not even the devil in person!"
I tried to dissuade my uncle from carrying out his plan, but in vain. It was no use my telling him it would be a pity to lose his gift on account of a rather too beautiful Spanish woman who wouldn't even thank him. Nothing had any effect. "The time has come for me to call up Don Carlos," he replied.
Isabella del Mancio seemed very happy, at the prospect of being able at last to contemplate the famous ghost of Don Carlos. What did the price of this apparition matter to her? "I've been hearing about him for so long." And a smile flitted across her sensual lips. "They say he's very handsome."
"No," cried my Uncle Ivan, "Don Carlos is not handsome!"

My Uncle Ivan told me to put out all the lights in the house and close all the doors and windows. We lived in an enormous house by the sea, a big isolated house that might have been three or four hundred years old. "When you come back to the parlor," he said, "shut the door behind you, put out all the lights except the one above the round table, and hide in the darkest corner of the room. Whatever you do, don't show yourself. Under no circumstances, understand? Under no circumstances!!"
When I came back to the parlor, my Uncle Ivan was standing in the middle of the room looking at the huge mirror hanging above the fireplace. "That's the way Don Carlos will come," he said at last.
Isabella started to laugh (all that woman could do was laugh!) and declared that she absolutely must buy the mirror when it was all over. "I want to take Don Carlos away with me," she declared. My uncle looked at her severely. "When you have seen Don Carlos," he said, "you certainly won't want to take him away with you."
I hid behind a curtain, in a very dark corner of the room, while my Uncle Ivan and Isabella sat down at the round table. "Before we begin," whispered my uncle, "I must warn you of one thing. Don Carlos must not know that we are here. Don Carlos must not see us. When you see him, don't make a sound. Above all, don't speak."
"What a pity," exclaimed Isabella throwing back her head. "When I wanted to seduce your ghost."
How I hated that woman. How I hated her.
My uncle spread out his hands on the round table and told the Spanish woman to join her fingers to his. Then he uttered some words that I didn't understand and that Isabella seemed to find very funny. I saw her laughing as she watched my uncle recite his incantations. If I had been able at that moment to foresee what was going to happen, I should have killed Isabella del Mancio and I should have saved my Uncle Ivan.

To begin with, all I heard was a slight, almost imperceptible sound that seemed to come from above the fireplace. My Uncle Ivan leaned toward Isabella and whispered: "Don't look at the mirror immediately. I shall tell you when you can look." Isabella turned away her head, but I continued to look in the direction of the mirror. The same low sound was repeated several times over and a soft orange light suddenly lit up the mirror. My uncle continued to mumble incoherent words. He did not look in the direction of the mirror either. But I looked.
Suddenly my Uncle Ivan jumped up and threw himself on me like a madman. "Don't look at the mirror," he cried. "Don't look at the mirror. He might kill you. Don Carlos might kill you."
At the same instant, a terrifying noise filled the room and the mirror was smashed in pieces. A violent gust of wind lifted the curtains while a piercing whistle rent my ears. "Disaster," cried my Uncle Ivan. "The mirror is broken! Don Carlos won't be able to leave!"
A long trail of bluish smoke was hanging in the middle of the room. "He is already here," said my Uncle Ivan. "Whatever you do, don't make a sound. Under no circumstances." He went and sat down in his chair, under the lighted chandelier, beside Isabella del Mancio. Isabella seemed to be enjoying herself mightily.
The trail of smoke eddied in the room to form a long spiral starting from the ceiling and ending on the floor. The spiral swirled faster and faster. There was a sound like the whistling of a hurricane that came closer every second. At a certain moment, the trail of smoke spun round so fast that it was no longer visible. It had become a sort of transparent blue light. Then I heard the most fearsome neigh it is possible to imagine. It sounded at one and the same time like the cry of an animal and the noise of thunder.
Within the bluish light, the vague shape of a white horse was moving. It was a magnificent animal with an extremely long mane and a superb tail. "What a fine horse," whispered Isabella del Mancio.
"Keep quiet," replied my uncle. "Do you want to bring disaster upon us?"
The horse neighed again and began to trot around the parlor. It circled the room two or three times, and then went and stood in the blue light again. Then it raised its head toward the ceiling and neighed quite softly.
Then there appeared the most extraordinary and the most repulsive being it has ever been given to a human being to see. It was not a man, it was a veritable Titan. Seated on the horse, Don Carlos appeared even bigger than he must be in reality. His head almost touched the ceiling. I had never seen such an ugly face or such a vicious expression. I cannot describe here the horror this giant inspired in me. He was ugly, with an almost unbearable ugliness, and his extraordinary size added still further to this ugliness. He gazed around him as though looking for something that he couldn't find. His forehead was creased and he seemed angry. He dismounted from his horse and circled the room, as the horse had done before.
Isabella del Mancio was no longer laughing. She was extremely pale and clutched my Uncle Ivan's shoulders.
Don Carlos seemed to be more and more furious. He remounted his horse. The horse walked slowly toward the mirror. But suddenly Isabella rose and approached the horse. Neither my uncle nor I could suppress a cry of amazement. We cried out just as Isabella touched the horse with the tips of her fingers. The horse reared up as if a hand of fire had touched it. Don Carlos turned toward Isabella, seemed to see her for the first time, and bent down to her. He looked her straight in the eyes. Isabella seemed to be hypnotized by his look and did not move. Don Carlos took off his right glove and placed his hand on Isabella's face. His nails sank into the young woman's flesh and, as Isabelle screamed with pain, five trickles of blood ran down her face.
Unable to restrain himself, my Uncle Ivan threw himself upon Isabella del Mancio. He tried with all his strength to snatch her from the ghost's clutches, but to no avail. Then he ran to the fireplace, picked up an enormous candlestick and struck Don Carlos on the left arm. Don Carlos opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Finally he let go of poor Isabella, who collapsed on the floor. A few shreds of flesh remained clinging to Don Carlos' nails. My uncle dropped the candlestick, shouting: "Run! Run, before it's too late! Don Carlos has seen us! We're lost!... No, there's one chance. Open the window wide. Don Carlos will think it's the mirror and jump through it."
Meanwhile, Don Carlos, who had dismounted from his horse, had gone to the mirror and observed that it was broken. He turned slowly and looked at my uncle, still holding his left arm. "Quick, hurry," cried my uncle.
I rushed to the nearest window and threw it open. The wind blew into the room and frightened Don Carlos' horse.
The animal seemed incredibly frightened. It began running about the room in all directions, knocking everything over as it passed. Don Carlos seized it by the mane and climbed onto it. My uncle had squeezed up against the wall to avoid the horse. "Run! Run! Don Carlos is angry! Nothing can stop him now! The mirror is broken! Don Carlos cannot leave!"
Then I watched the most horrible sight of my life. An atrocious vision that has left in me an infinite vertigo of sorrow and horror. Don Carlos' horse galloped about the room in all directions while his master kept turning round in order not to lose sight of my Uncle Ivan. My uncle ran to avoid being trampled on by the maddened beast. The crushed and bleeding body of Isabella del Mancio lay by the fireplace. I was hidden behind my curtain and could not move, paralyzed by all the horrors I was seeing.
At a certain moment, the horse passed very close to my Uncle Ivan. Don Carlos bent down, picked him up and laid him across his saddle, in front of the pommel. I let out a great yell and hurled myself at the animal. But it was too late. Don Carlos had seen the window and his horse was already through it. "Good-bye," cried my uncle. "I loved you too much...."
Next day, in the village, a fisherman swore he had seen -a horse galloping on the sea. Two men were on the horse. One seemed to be very tall. The other was not moving. He seemed to be dead.