The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Bessie Kyffin-Taylor-From Out of the Silence

by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor

  “You are foolish,” he said, “it isn’t meant to open.”

  “Open it, there’s a dear,” I pleaded, “I must see through it.”

  It took us working together, a good half-hour to wriggle those bolts back and turn that rusty key, and though I was now ready to admit I was mistaken, I was quite determined to see that door opened. At last the key turned and Dick, exerting his whole strength, leant on the door. It creaked, moved, and finally, after one more terrific push, yielded slowly moving back on its rusty hinges. A rush of damp, musty air greeted us, and the sound of scurrying mice, or even rats, made us draw back, to grab the lamp, holding it aloft as we peered into the room beyond us. Amazed, speechless, we gazed.

  The room was empty! carpetless! cold! grim! reeking of damp mould. Only one chair stood there, an old black carved oak chair, with a high back, faded blue velvet cushion moth eaten and hanging in rags. Long blue velvet curtains in the same condition hung across the windows, and from the torn fringes cobwebs cluttered, hanging in festoons.

  Suddenly I stared, clutching Dick’s arm, and as we looked, there came the sound of a silvery, tinkling laugh, and the tap of high-heeled shoes crossing the floor.

  It was only the fact of my brother’s arm suddenly catching me round the waist, that kept me from what he would have called “making a fool of myself,” as it was, I felt as if turned to ice, even the scream that terror brought to my lips, seemed to freeze there, and as the tap of the little heels died away, my brother’s voice sounded in my ears—

  “Come, girl, pull yourself together,” and half-carrying me, he took me back to the sitting-room, depositing me in the chair by the fire, looking at me in silence for some minutes, before he spoke.

  “It is not explainable, Pat dear, is it?”

  I shook my head, not daring to trust my voice yet; then he looked at his watch.

  “Too late to move, dear; no trains.”

  This in answer, I think, to the appeal I knew he must see in my face.

  Suddenly I missed Tim.

  “The dog!” I managed to whisper.

  “Ratting, most likely,” answered Dick, in what he attempted to make a nonchalant voice, “but I’d better see. You will be quite all right for a moment. Sit where you are, I’ll be quick.”And he vanished, leaving me sitting trembling, in my big chair, feeling too done up to even think.

  True to his promise, he soon returned, carrying Tim, whom he laid down gently and began to rub his limbs.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, gravely; “but he wasn’t ratting, he was lying on the floor gasping and trembling.”

  “Did you see anything?” I managed to ask.

  “No,” he replied, hesitatingly, “except the white cat. I saw that. It was standing close to him. They have had a scrap.”

  “But Tim isn’t scratched,” I said.

  “No—no—he’s not,” answered Dick. “Oh, don’t let’s talk of it, dear. Here, have a cig., and forget it. We will pile up the fire and I’ll bring our coats, and we will sit here until it is daylight enough to move, then we’ll scoot.”

  We did our best to cheer up; and after awhile, Tim revived, and became more like himself. We tried to keep away from the subject uppermost in both our minds, but the long silences were not like our usual happy silences, there was a disturbing element, and I fancy both of us, indeed all three, would have been thankful if it had been 8 a. m. and not 8 p. m.

  Our meal was brought in and put ready, old Martha glancing at us more than once as she laid the cloth, but neither of us spoke Until she had departed; or, at least, Tim was the only one who spoke, and he glared at her and growled, as she moved nearer to us.

  “What is it, old man?” asked Dick, soothingly; and, under the touch of his master’s hand the old dog quietened down once more.

  We made a poor pretence at a meal, and were thankful to ring the bell and get it cleared away.

  As old Martha was finally leaving us, Dick said:

  “Please don’t disturb us again. We are both going to do some writing, and may be late going to bed, don’t trouble to wait up, we shall not require anything further.”

  The old dame seemed on the point of speaking, but thought better of it, and moved away. Just as she got to the door, I heard a faint “Meow!” Tim sprang up, hair bristling and eyes aflame. I turned my head to look at the cat, and to my amazement, saw the old dame stoop down and stroke the empty air. Seeing me staring, she straightened herself and vanished.

  “Don’t leave me again, Dick,” I implored. “I shall bolt if you do.”

  “All right, old lady; but just let me run for our big coats, sit tight for a minute, I will not leave you again—promise.”And he was gone.

  Am I more susceptible I wonder, to things unseen, than other people, for it seemed to me that the instant I was alone, the very atmosphere of the room altered. Shudderingly I endeavoured to “sit tight;” but, to my disordered nerves the room no longer seemed empty, and I sat grasping Tim’s collar with one hand, and the side of my chair with the other, until I heard Dick’s step returning; and with his entrance, some, at least, of the strain relaxed, and I breathed more easily. We heaped up the fire, drew the table with the lamp closer to us, put our chairs as close together as possible, and covered our knees and Tim with one of the coats.

  “Try and sleep, Pat; I will guard,” said Dick. But sleep was far from me, and I did not intend him to watch alone either, so we lit our smokes, and tried to read or chat.

  A couple of hours had passed cosily and serenely, when a queer creaking sound arrested my attention, and I turned quickly. Dick looked up instantly, and our eyes turned instinctively to where stood the old-fashioned basket-work; and as we looked, we both heard the tumbling of a reel of cotton on the floor.

  “Sounds as if the old cat had got loose among the workbasket,” said my brother, trying to joke. “Oh! look at Tim.”

  I am certain the dog saw what we imagined, “the white cat,” but he made no attempt to get to close quarters with it, only glared and bristled, hugging close and yet closer to his master.

  “Can you go through it, dear?” Dick asked me, somewhat anxiously. “I fear we are in for something of a night.”

  “I’ll try,” I whispered. “I’ll stick to it if I can, I’ve always hankered to see and hear ghosts, so I must be glad my wish seems about to be realised, but I prefer people to cats,” I said, with a feeble attempt at a smile. As I spoke, the soft, tinkling laugh reached my ear. I grasped Dick’s hand, as we sat, silent, intent on we knew not what.

  It must have been somewhere about midnight when the door behind us opened suddenly, violently, letting in a rush of cold damp air; and through the wide-flung heavy door, we saw dimly the old, high-backed chair with its faded torn cushion, and a glimpse of the hangings in the distance.

  “The same room,” I managed to whisper, and Dick’s whispered “Buck up!” and the calm pressure of his hand on mine, worked wonders in quietening the terrific throbs of my heart. We heard a heavy footfall, a tumbling, half-shuffling step, we heard the sound of something being kicked, we heard our furniture being knocked, we felt the presence of some other creature in the room, yet we saw nothing.

  Somehow that other presence seemed to draw nearer, ever nearer to where we sat, and instinctively we rose and edged further and further from the fireplace, closer and closer to the door—the presence seemed to follow, and compel us to leave our refuge of safety, the door, and go nearer to the far end of the room beside the other door from whence “It” had entered, and then “It” seemed to relieve us of its following menace and go from us, and we heard as if a heavy body sank into one of the red leather chairs. I almost shrieked, but again the steady clasp of my brother’s arm reassured me.

  We did not speak, yet both were now certain we were not alone, and both waited as if there was—something we must wait for, then the tinkling laugh sounded close beside us, close enough to make me start and gasp. The heavy body s
eemed to lift from the chair and pass us, with a cold gust of air, and we heard the little tapping shoes in the room beyond. Together we crept closer to that open door, until we stood there against our wills, and yet powerless to fight the power that drove us there.

  The room was no longer in darkness, nor yet in rags and tatters, it had every appearance of an exquisitely furnished and upholstered room. I was beyond horror now—I seemed to be the interested spectator of a wordless drama.

  The room was no longer tenantless, for there, in the high oak chair, sat the figure of a girl, her small head with a wealth of red hair, was thrown back against the chair, and her blue eyes seemed to flash blue fire as she stared defiantly before her—one dainty foot in a silver embroidered shoe, with the highest of heels, was poised on an ebony or black oak stool, the other was impatiently tapping the floor. In her arms was the large white cat, looking at her and rubbing its head against her shoulder.

  We saw a man go through the door by which we stood, as if he entered from our room—a big coarsely-made man, with the coarse bloated features of a hard drinker—we saw him go near to the chair where the dainty figure sat upright, defiant, we saw him raise a threatening hand, but the little figure only gazed at him with blazing, scornful eyes. We saw him bend swiftly and draw from his breast pocket something that gleamed, and, frozen to the spot as we were, we saw him plunge a keen knife into that lovely body, and withdraw it, to plunge it deep into the white cat There was a long moaning cry, and the mocking little lady lay a huddled heap on the floor, with the white cat clasped close in her arms. One shriek I gave, and fainted.

  When I opened my eyes again, the grey light of dawn was stealing in at our windows, the fire was burning merrily, and a kettle hissing on the hob.

  I was lying back in one of the big chairs, my brother was kneeling beside me, and a grey-haired, kindly-faced man was holding my hand. I came to myself, slowly, memory struggling to recall the “whys” and “wherefores.”

  Dick answered my unspoken question, saying quietly: “Don’t worry, dear, you are all safe.” And then youth and health began to reassert themselves, and I tried to collect my scattered wits.

  “She is all right, doctor, isn’t she?” asked my faithful old brother.

  A gruff, but kindly voice answered:

  “Yes, but take your time, and then get her home.”

  “I—I—oh! what was it all?” I asked, consciousness and memory coming suddenly into their own. “Did I dream it? Where is the pretty girl? Oh! tell me what did it all mean?”

  “Better tell her, doctor,” said Dick, “there will be no peace otherwise.”

  Then the gruff voice bade me “get up and look into the room beyond.”

  “Must I?” I asked, shuddering.

  “Come, girl,” said my brother, and with his arm round me, he led me to the still open door. I looked—and saw an empty, dirty room—with cushions and hangings of faded blue velvet festooned with cobwebs—peopled only with scurrying rats and mice.

  “Well! But—what—” I began.

  “Ah! my dear lady,” answered the old doctor, “I cannot tell you why, but from the accounts of your brother here, I can only say, that you appear to have witnessed the tragedy which happened long years ago in this old inn, and which gave it the unenviable reputation it possesses of being haunted by a pair of lovers and a white cat. I cannot tell you the story, but old Seth Manners, who lives with his granddaughter a mile away, could, if you care to hear it, tell the story. I only know that once every year the whole scene takes place, but, except old Martha, who’s nursling the girl was, I know of no one else who has seen it. But then,” he went on, “no one comes here. Did no one warn you?”

  “Well, vaguely,” I answered, as my mind flew back to veiled hints on the part of fellow travellers, the station master, the old man where we had tea, and last, but by no means least, if we had been intelligent enough to understand Timothy’s warnings without end, from the moment we reached the door of the Star Inn, and met the white cat on its doorstep.

  “If you feel like remaining on,” said the doctor, “you may rest in peace, nothing more will happen until twelve months has gone by, and if you decide to stay, I shall be delighted to see you both any time—my house lies beyond the village, close to that belt of pines against the hill.”

  “Pine Side,” I murmured.

  “Exactly,” said Dr. Moss, “Pine Side—it is also the name of my house, come and see it”

  “Are you game, Pat?” asked my dauntless brother.

  “Yes,” I said, “I am. I want to call on Seth Manners, and hear the story of the lovers and the white cat.”

  And so we stayed, and were greatly bowed down to in the village, on account of what they called Lancashire grit; and maybe there is something in that same grit which enabled two unsuspecting, sensitive beings to witness, without losing their reason, a tragedy of other days, enacted as clearly as we witnessed this one. If I must be quite truthful, there is no other being in this world with whom I should have had the nerve to see it through with, but that one beloved brother, with his calm and steady courage and ever tender care.

  We spent the remainder of our holiday there, where we began it, and not the least enjoyable part of it were the happy hours of talk and mutual interest we spent with our kindly friend Dr. Moss. We found under that gruff exterior one of the kindliest natures that ever lived; and our talk, in those quiet evenings beside his study fire, often led us into channels deeper than we could navigate. For, scientist as he was, he never succeeded in explaining away those things which we saw with our own unclouded eyes and heard with our keen ears, in our quaint sitting-room at the Star Inn. And one day, when I had recovered from the shock to my nerves, we called on our old friend Seth Manners; and, over a cup of tea and a crust from his big loaf, we told him our experiences at the inn, and begged him to tell us the story.

  He took a great deal of persuading, but more, I think, because he liked to feel his was the important position of being the only person besides old Martha, who knew the story, and could faithfully recount it.

  “It is no’ a long tale,” he began. “So sit you here, Miss; and when I gets me pipe a-goin’ yer shall ’ave it.”

  “It’s like this,” he began, between the puffs of his pipe, “Sir Dan Barnes owned all this place, and thought he oughter own the souls and bodies of the people as well, and Miss Maudie, the rector’s pretty girl, said always as ’ed not brow-beat ’er—she’d see to that. ’Appen ’er ole father knuckled under a goodish bit to Sir Dan, and w’en Sir Dan sets eye on pretty Miss Maudie, just when she come ’ome from school in London, the poor old rector was in a bad way for money. ’Is youngest lad was a wrong ’un and ’e got bettin’ and drinkin’, an’ old Sir Dan got the lad in ’is clutches and led ’im on, till the lad forged ’is employer’s name to a big pot o’ money, and then begged of Sir Dan ’isself, and Sir Dan said ’ed pay the cash, if Maudie would marry ’im. The girl was driven to it, though ’er ’eart, poor lass, was guv elsewhere.

  “Sir Dan gave ’er a week to make up ’er mind, and she gave in, but must take ’er big white cat, Benbow, with ’er.

  “Sir Dan ’ated that cat, it alus spitted at ’im, but the girl said ‘Me and Benbow, or neither,’ so ’e took them both, and w’ile the ’all was being done up, they lived at the Star. Sir Dan ’e was blind drunk every night, and he treated the girl shameful, but whenever ’e raised ’is hand to ’it ’er, Benbow spit at ’im and often clawed ’im, an’ the girl just laughed and mocked ’im. ’E used to chase the pair of ’em round the room, and threaten to kill ’em both when ’e got ’em, but Lady Maudie used to laugh that little mocking laugh of ’ers, an’ blow out all the candles and laugh again when ’e fell into the furniture in ’is drunk efforts to catch them.

  “One night he ordered ’er to put the beastly cat down or ’ed kill it, and she chucked up ’er dainty ’ed and laughed in ’is drunken face and ’e whips out an old Italian knife ’e ’ad and stabbed ’er
to the ’eart and then the cat; and some say as threw them both in the old chest in the room and then shot ’imself, and they didn’t find Lady Maud for some days after, and then she was found in the chest with the body of the white cat still clasped in ’er arms.

  “Old Martha nursed Lady Maudie as a babby, and watched over ’er when she could, and sez as she often sees ’er, and that Benbow follows ’er always. P’raps the old woman’s dotty—she’s near eighty, anyhow; she swears that her darlin’ Maud still lives in the inn, and that those who have eyes to see, know that she is speakin’ the truth when she says that Lady Maudie and her white cat still live in the Star Inn at Pine Side.”

  The old man stopped speaking, and seemed oblivious of our presence; so, laying some silver on the table, we slipped away, and next day our holiday ended.

  We often speak of it, and it is always a vivid memory. The “whys and wherefores” remain—as they ever will—unsolved, until they and all else are made clear to our limited understandings. The fact remains—we saw what took place long before our time, and the sight of a white cat always has power to make me shudder and remember:

  “PINE SIDE.”