The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories

by Simon Stern

  “ ‘You play a shrewd game.’

  “ ‘Thank you, sir,’ said I.

  “After that we went on playing in silence. My luck was changing. I lost repeatedly, and when we had played several hands, he succeeded in getting the gold back to his end, with five pounds of mine along with it. This angered me, and I proposed that we should raise the stakes and play for two pounds a side. He was quite agreeable. I lost another five. Then I said we had better play for six pounds each hand. Still I was unsuccessful; still he drew my money to his end, until the last piece of gold having been swept into his pile, we played for half-crowns, then for shillings, then for sixpences, and at last I had only a few coppers at stake. The cards were given out. Eagerly I grasped mine, with the hope of holding the better hand. Alas, it was worthless! He won! Every farthing of two hundred pounds was gone, and I was constrained to tell him I could play no longer.

  “ ‘Tut, man!’ said he; ‘the game is young.’

  “ ‘Yes,’ I answered, despondently; ‘but my last penny is lost. There’s nothing left.’

  “ ‘Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said he. ‘I’m anything but a bad man, so I’ll give you a chance of getting your money back.’

  “ ‘You will?’ cried I, delighted.

  “ ‘I will,’ he replied. ‘What would you say if I were to wager all I have here’—he pushed the glittering pieces forward—‘and all I have here’—taking a bag from his black pocket and emptying its golden contents on the slab—‘that I will be victor in two games out of three?’

  “ ‘You would be very magnanimous,’ I returned, burning to hear the conditions. ‘But I have absolutely nothing left.’

  “ ‘You have your word.’

  “ ‘What do you mean?’ I cried.

  “ ‘I mean that if you will pledge me your word to serve me hereafter at any time I may chance to call upon you, I will wager my gold against your word. If I lose, the gold is yours, all of it, every bright sovereign; and you may take back your vow, too.’

  “As he spoke, he leaned forward, took the gold in his hand, letting it slip through his fingers in a sheeny, clinking stream. I did not hesitate to consider the import of his dreadful propositions. Gold I must have—not for its own sake, not because I am avaricious—simply because I hungered to gamble.

  “ ‘It’s a bargain,’ I said.

  “ ‘Then repeat these words after me,’ he commanded.

  “ ‘I swear’—he dictated, and I repeated word after word to the end—‘I swear to be the servant of this man from this hour unto the end of time, to renounce all other masters, and to serve him faithfully and well in all that he may command.’

  “I could hardly wait for him to finish, so eager was I to resume the play. Once more we seated ourselves on the milestone; again the cards were dealt out, and the strangest game that ever men played was begun. I won on the first hand. The cards came round a second time. He won. A game for each. Then I prepared myself for the last—the great struggle. Victory meant riches and freedom; defeat, I know not what. My brain was on fire; my hands trembled so that in picking up the cards he had placed near me—the cards which were to decide for or against me—they fell out of my shaking fingers and dropped on the snow at my feet.” Here the speaker faltered and appeared reluctant to proceed. “My good people, when just as my fingers were about to fasten on the cards, my eye saw something that caused my blood to turn as cold as this snow on the ground—something that took from me the power to move, to speak, that petrified me and left me gazing at it like a statue. Think of being alone with that man out on the snow, away from all help, in a place seemingly deserted by its Maker, and shudder to dream of what I saw—of it!”

  He shuddered even then—even as he sat in the midst of Andy’s guests—in Andy’s cheerful parlour. But surely he is not to be termed a coward, when we know that the cottagers at this point of the recital turned their heads and cast many uneasy glances towards the door, drawing closer to the fire as they did so.

  “I was telling you I was rooted to my seat. No wonder! Before me, with the sickly light from the lantern shining right down upon it, was—a cloven hoof!”

  “A cloven hoof! The divil!” cried everybody.

  “I closed my eyes, thinking I was dreaming. But no; for when I opened them, there was the cursed hoof before me!”

  “Lord save us!”

  “Then the awfulness of the compact I had made came to my mind with terrible force. I was bartering my soul for gold. Now I see that Providence watched over me, for it was the thought of what I was doing that caused me to leap to my feet with a cry for help, and run with feet of wind—feet winged with fear—away from that thing! Every moment I expected to feel his hand on my shoulder, to be dragged back to that hellish game of cards at which my soul would be lost to it—to the thing in black. You must have heard my screams, for as I ran I saw—and how I thanked God for it!—I saw a stream of glorious light burst in the blackness! It gave new courage to my heart and new strength to my limbs. After that I remember nothing. I suppose I became unconscious. The rest you already know; and, believe me when I say it, I cannot easily forget your prompt assistance and heartfelt sympathy. I have finished.”

  With the stranger’s adventure and all its hideous details fresh within the mind of every man, woman, and child present, the very idea of leaving that hospitable roof was thrilling in itself; so motherly Mrs. Sweeny found resting-places for the women and children, while the men slept on improvised beds of chairs, tables, &c., the greater part of them lying on the floor before the fire. The stranger retired shortly after he had concluded his story, and it was not long until the Sweeny household was asleep and snoring.

  To the reader:

  If you doubt any part of this narrative, you may visit Mrs. Sweeny and have it from her lips. Ask any one in Derry Goland, King’s County, Ireland, the whereabouts of Andy Sweeny’s house, and you will be sure to find it.

  There were some cynics who said that the young man had been drinking freely at the squire’s, had lost considerable money at playing cards, had wandered from the squire’s in a maudlin state, had rested on the milestone and dreamed about the man in black, and that the only devil he saw was a creature of his drunken fancy, generally termed a “blue devil.” But Mrs. Sweeny and most of her guests maintain that the gentleman could not have related his adventure, and described it so graphically, too, had he been intoxicated. I give no opinion in the matter. The readers may take what view of it they please.

  19, GREAT HANOVER STREET by Lillie Harris

  My name is Alan Forsyth, my age thirty-three. I stand six feet, one inch and a half in my stockinged feet. I am sound in wind and limb, I have splendid digestion, have not a grain of superstition in my nature, am a doctor by profession, and a bachelor, because I see too much of the so-called joys (?) of domestic life. “Domestic life,” indeed, my experience of that gleaned from observations made while attending houses professionally is that it is a snare and a delusion. But it is not my purpose to speak on that subject. My task is to write out faithfully the extraordinary events that befell me while I occupied the house 19, Great Han­over street. Events that caused my hair to turn grey with horror in one single night, events that have seared themselves on my brain, events which can never be effaced from my memory while this life lasts. I say that I am strong and healthy because my narrative will sound like the delusions of some over-wrought brain, and yet I have always had the reputation of being a clear-headed, eminently practical man. I am not superstitious—but stay, I ought to say I was not, for I have been taught that “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” In writing this history of facts I can offer no explanation of their extraordinary character. I shall give you the whole story of what occurred to me, and if you like to disbelieve it, go yourself and spend a month or two in that accursed house, and you will be convinced, but let the time of your tenancy be in December, and if you live through the horror of what you will hear
and what you will see, you will be fortunate, but assuredly never, never will you laugh or jeer at the incomprehensible again. If, however, you take my advice, you will shun Great Hanover street, or, at least, number nineteen.

  In 1884 I wished to commence practise for myself. I had been assistant to Doctor ——, and I daresay should have kept with him, but an old aunt of mine died, and left me some money, so I thought that I could not do better than utilise it by making a start on my own behalf. I advertised, and in due time I bought a practice, my predecessor selling it because of the ill-health of his wife, which compelled them to live in Cheltenham. Unfortunately I could not take their house, as they had had it on a lease, which was just up, and the landlord himself intended residing in it in future.

  Now I had always had a house of my own, as when my poor mother died I had kept on the home, and Anne, my housekeeper (who had originally been my nurse, and so consequently petted and tyrannised over me, in the manner of old servants), kept it in a way which was alike the delight and envy of all my bachelor friends. Of course moving was a nuisance, but Slominster was only about 70 miles from London, where I was then living, and I knew that if I could get a suitable house Anne would speedily get it into comfortable order.

  “Don’t worry yourself,” said Mrs. Price, the wife of the doctor whose practice I had bought, “you will soon get a house, and till then make this your home, if you don’t mind us being in a state of confusion with packing, &c.”

  I thanked her; but still I resolved to get a house as soon as possible. I put myself in the hands of an agent, and for two days spent the best part of my time inspecting residences all more or less unsuitable. At length I got thoroughly wearied, I walked along mechanically, and somehow I found myself in a street that I had never been in before. It was an old-fashioned looking road, with quaint red brick houses on either side. I looked up to see the name of the place; there it was at the corner—“Great Hanover street.” As my eye rested on the name, it also rested on a house. It was empty, and in the window was a card, “To Let.” I crossed over. It was a corner house, well on to the pavement, but round the corner was a large square garden, and through the high iron railings mounted on a brick wall I could see a side door.

  “The very house for me,” I thought, triumphantly; “a quiet respectable neighbourhood; the door at the side would do excellently for the surgery; there’s a nice garden. I think I will look over it.” The “To Let” card informed me that keys and full particulars were to be obtained at Mr. Hunt’s, Howard row, so I took out my pocket book and jotted down the address, and then looked at the number of the house. It was 19, Great Hanover Street.

  As I strode along, I saw a hansom and hailed it, and was soon bowling off to Howard row. Mr. Hunt I found from the brass plate on the door was a land agent, and this was his office. On entering I saw that there were some half-a-dozen young fellows all busily engaged in writing. One of them got off his stool at my entrance.

  “I have come for some particulars concerning a house,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” he answered courteously but indifferently. The office was very quiet; the pens of the five clerks went scratching over the paper, and I was conscious of a vague and insane desire that they would lift up their heads, and not be so aggravatingly industrious. “What house is it?”

  “19, Great Hanover street,” I answered.

  There was a dead pause, my wish was gratified, the clerks had left off writing, and with one common accord had turned round to stare at me.

  “19, Great Hanover street,” I repeated impatiently.

  The young fellow gazed at me, all indifference gone; he seemed amazed.

  “I think,” he commenced, in a quick, eager voice, strangely at variance with his former languid tone, when he was interrupted by the entrance of a small brisk-looking gentleman, who I rightly imagined was Mr. Hunt.

  “What can we do for you, sir?” he asked.

  “I want some information about the house 19, Great Hanover street,” I replied.

  Was it my fancy, or did the ruddy colour fade from his cheek? Anyhow he stared at me with the same blank look that I had noticed with the clerk.

  “Certainly,” he responded, recovering himself with an effort. “I take it that you are a stranger to the town?”

  “Yes,” I answered, “I am Doctor Forsyth. I have bought Doctor Price’s practice.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, eyeing me curiously, “so you would like particulars about number 19. It has been empty a long time, I might say a very long time, but the owners will be glad to do it up thoroughly for a good tenant,” and then he gave me particulars as to accommodation, rent, &c.

  The finish of it was that Hunt and I drove to see the house, but I was conscious that our departure in the hansom was watched with much interest by the clerks.

  I was delighted with the house; the rooms were large and airy, the domestic arrangements splendid. On either side of the passage leading to the garden door was a good sized room, which would do capitally for surgery and consulting room; in short, it was a small mansion, and the only thing that surprised me was the ridiculously low rent, which Mr. Hunt informed me was owing to the house being empty for so long. Another thing that astonished me was the man’s nervousness, for he was certainly the most nervous beggar I ever met. Once I let my stick fall on the tesselated hall, and when he heard the clatter he turned simply livid.

  To cut the matter short, I took the house for three years, on the understanding that it was to be re-papered, whitewashed, and painted inside and out.

  I was staying at the Price’s, but they were both in Cheltenham, making final arrangements for their removal there, and I heard nothing about my house till nearly a fortnight after I had taken it. The work was being pushed on rapidly, but I had been so extremely busy professionally that I had only been down at number 19 twice, and I had been much tickled to see what an object of interest I was to all the neighbours, who eyed me from their windows with great curiosity.

  The Prices returned in the evening, and at dinner I said to Mrs. Price, “I have got a house, and hope to be able to move in next week.”

  “I am awfully glad to hear that you are suited at last,” she replied cordially, “where is it?”

  “19, Great Hanover street,” I answered.

  There was a pause, and a smash, a glass that she held in her hand fell to the ground.

  “Oh, Doctor, not that red brick corner house?” she said, “not the one with the corner garden?”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” I laughed rather impatiently, “what is the matter with it, is it haunted?”

  “Yes,” she answered, “don’t take it. I can’t tell you how, or why it is haunted, but it is. Two people only have lived in it during the last 10 years, and one was found dead on the morning of the 22nd December, and the other, four years ago, on the same date, was found raving mad, and died a fortnight after without recovering his reason once, to say what he had seen or heard, in that fearful house.”

  I burst out laughing, and my merriment only ceased when I saw how thoroughly offended my hostess looked. “I beg your pardon,” I said contritely, “but I really cannot help feeling amused. Imagine anyone in this prosaic materialistic age believing in ghosts. It is too funny. Why, I shall perfectly revel in Number 19. I have been pining all my life to live in a haunted house, to see a white-robed female carrying her head under her arm, and so on.”

  Mrs. Price looked offended, her husband changed the conversation, and the subject dropped, but directly after she left the room he said to me quite gravely, “Look here, Forsyth, don’t live in that house, sneer at it as much as you please, but there is something uncanny about it. My wife mentioned two cases, but there are five authenticated cases of people who have resided at Number 19, and they have either been found dead or raving mad. No one knows what they have seen or heard, but the fact remains that strong, robust men of admirable physique have had their hair whitened and their reason destroyed with some unknown horror, and I
beg of you not to rush into this mysterious danger.”

  The doctor’s warning had no effect on me. I was an out and out sceptic, and the idea of a haunted house implicitly believed in, in this nineteenth century of ours filled me with delight.

  The next morning, I went down to see Hunt. “So No. 19 is haunted,” I remarked.

  He turned ghastly. “Well yes, Doctor,” he replied, recovering himself with an effort, “it has that reputation, and it has given us a lot of trouble. You know what it is, ‘Give a dog a bad name, &c,’ and as it has got about that the place is haunted folks are chary of taking it.”

  “Is it true,” I asked, “that everyone who has lived there has either died or gone mad?”

  He hesitated and fidgeted so, that I was quite convinced that Price’s story was correct, but rash fool that I was nothing would warn me.

  “To tell the truth, Doctor,” said Hunt, in a burst of confidence, “the house has got a bad reputation. It was a splendid property till about twenty years ago. A doctor occupied it then. He was a foreigner—Doctor Caravini by name—and he had a very lovely young wife who disappeared mysteriously. It was believed that she had eloped, but anyhow she disappeared just before Christmas. Her husband, always a grave and reserved man, said nothing, and offered no explanation, and the following December he was found dead. I was only a young fellow at the time and I disliked the man most cordially for some unknown reason, but I shall never forget the awful expression of horror there was on his face when I saw him dead.”