The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories

by Simon Stern

  “Well, Biddy,” ses Thady, “I don’t like much to differ wid you; but I’m not sure but I’d feel more contint to stay alive for a while; anyhow, till I tasted the home baked bread,” he says, with a laugh; an’ so they wint, the two ov’ thim, into the bakehouse.

  Biddy called the girl to open the oven an’ draw the bread. For she’d got up quite airly in the mornin’ to surproize Thady wid her beautiful bakin’. An’ there was six lovely loaves, lookin’ like three dear little pairs of sweet little twin babbies, asleep in all their innocence. “Dear me, O,” she says, for she was quite touched wid her success. “What a pity to think that lovely crust’ll get soft an’ tough before Thursday! An’ they’re as light as a feather,” she says, “an’ it’s a wondherful fine oven; an’ Thady,” she ses, “it’s not very wholesome, but jist this wanst we’ll eat hot bread for breakfast,” she says, an’ she was in the hoight of good humour, an’ ses she, “You’re right after all, Thady, I don’t want to die jist yet.” An’ so down they sot to their break­fast.

  Well, Thady takes up a loaf to cut a nice piece of undher crust off for Biddy, whin she says, “Stop, alanna,” ses she, “May I never, but there’s writin’ on the bread!”

  “Writin’ on the bread!” cries Thady, wid a loud guffaw of a laugh, but he turned the loaf up to look, an’ sure enough there was some big letthers on it.

  Well, they looked an’ looked, but they couldn’t make thim out; ould-fashioned looking, upside down, inside out; “Maybe it’s French,” ses Biddy. “No,” ses Thady, “it must be Latin,” ses he, “for there’s a big B, an’ it’s just turned right the wrong way; an’ there’s an R to the left hand ov’ it. What does it mane, at all, at all,” an’ he looked up at Biddy, an’ it’s startled she was, for all that she was so bould an’ brave, her face was as white as the bakehouse wall, an’ the teeth was chattering in her mouth. “Sure,” she ses, “if it’s writing the wrong way, it must be a spell, an’ there’s something onlooky about. Och! wirras thrice, why did I pass my little bit ov nonsense about the ghosts; there’s throuble comin to us out of that oven!”

  Well, Thady didn’t feel comfortable, but ’twas daylight, an’ so he tried to carry it off like a man; so he ses, “Don’t be a big fool, Biddy, sure the letthers has no maning; it might be some sort of a rash in the whate, that breaks out on the crust of the loaf.” An’ then he tried a poor bit of a joke, “the flour was made of red whate, an’ how could it be red without letthers?”

  Biddy snapped the loaf out ov his hand in a pet. “Av’ there is a ghost in it,” ses she; “I’ll spell it out backwards, and see what he’s got to say throublin dacent people.” An’ on she wint, “B-R-I Bri, B-r-i-d Brid, G-E-T get, Bridget,” she screams. “Och, Thady, alanna, I’m done for; it’s a message for me from the ghost!” Well, they wur like to faint, so they wur, an’ they tuk the other five loaves, an’ sure enough there was writin’ on thim too, an’ they turned thim all undhercrust uppermost to read the onlucky back­ward writing on thim, an’ see what was the worst of the spell the sperits was goin’ to put on thim. Well, they made it out somehow. The first loaf, as I tould yees, was Bridget —an’ that frightened the missis enough—but would ye believe it, the next loaf when they spelt it out was “Brophy of Glan,” and the third loaf “Brophy, died.” When they got this far, they looked at wan another, an’ Thady burst out in a fit o’ cryin’, and Biddy screamed “murther,” and caught him roun’ the waist, an’ tried to get her nose into his waistcoat pocket, for fear of seein’ any more of the ghost’s message. But ’twas all no use, they couldn’t help spellin’ the other loaves, an’ the long an’ the short ov it was, “Bridget Brophy of Glanbrophy, died Christmas Day, 1866, aged 44 years.” An’ it wur the very year they wur in, and it wur just ten days afore Christmas! “Oh, Thady, Thady,” cried Biddy, “I’m bespoke!—it’s all over wid me!—ten days to live!—and to die on Chrissimas Day!—an’ ’twas all your consait wantin’ to be Mister Brophy of Glanbrophy that’s brought me to this pass! Ochone, for Kilcoskan! I wish I was back! But that’s what man’s vanity does. Why couldn’t you lave me in peace where there wur no ghosts an’ warnin’ to make my last days miserable!” An’ she threw her aperon over her ’ead an’ rocked up an’ down as if her sorrow was a hungry babby she wur thryin’ to hush to slape.

  “Arrah! Biddy,” ses Thady, presently, quite hearty-like, “cheer up, woman. It’s a thrick somewan’s put upon you.” “How do you make that out, you could-hearted spalpeen,” she ses, getting out of the apron mighty quick all the same, for she was in hopes he wed have found a chance for her. “Why,” ses he, “do you believe the sperits know whin you’ll die?” “Av’ coorse,” she says, “they know all about everybody, an’ they can’t be wrong!” “Well, but av’ I show you they must be wrong, I ’spose you won’t believe them.” “Av’ coorse not,” she says, “but there’s ne’er a chance for me, I’m bespoke,” an’ she took to the apron agin. “Yis there is a chance,” ses Thady, “don’t take on like that, woman alive; sure the message ses you wur 44 years old next Christmas, an’ you’re only 39, so it can’t be yourself they mane.” Wid that Biddy began to screech like a stuck pig. “Och, Thady jewel, its all thrue! They’ve found me out; och, it’s me an’ no mistake! Whin I saw you first throwin’ sheep’s eyes at me, whin I lived at farmer O’Donovan’s, I let on I was only 18, an’ I was three-an’-twinty, an’ I’ve done you out of five years of my life, me poor fellow, and I’ve only ten days left for meself.” An’ wid that down she wint flop, a swoon on the flure.

  Thady got her to bed, an’ there she stopped; for she felt mighty wake an’ poorly, as you med suppose. They had meant to have a housewarmin’ and a dance at Christmas, an’ word had gone round to all the neighbours. But some­how the story got about one way or another, that there was to be a funeral instead of a dance, and that Mrs. Brophy of Glanbrophy had only a few more days to live. Thady sent for the docthor—he felt her pulse, an’ sent a half gallon draught, an’ a bastely powder, an’ a pill as big as a cannon ball, because they wur rich—but they didn’t do her a pin ov good, raison why, she never tuke a bit of them, she knew she would die on Christmas Day. Thady sent for the priest, an’ he talked an’ he read, an’ he sed he’d exorcise the sperits, but he didn’t do her a pin of good. Thady sint for the policeman to watch av’ there was any ghosts about the place, but he didn’t do a pin ov good, for whin Thady stumbled on the step at half-past twelve in the night, the policeman who was in the kitchen cut an’ run like a lamp­lighter, an’ was seen three miles off at saven o’clock, an’ said he’d chased the ghost that far. So people believed in the ghost all the more, though they did turn the story the other way an’ say he chased the policeman three miles in twenty-five minnits. So the long and the short of it was that Mrs. Brophy got waker an’ waker, an’ worse an’ worse, till Christmas Eve.

  Well, Thady was jist sittin’ over the fire in the dusk, an’ he was mortial low an’ onhappy, thinkin’ what ’ud he do the day afther to-morrow an’ every day afther that whin poor Biddy would be undher the sod, whin there came a knock to the doore. Thady wint an’ opened it, an’ seen a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man in the doorway. “Good evenin’ to yer honour,” ses the man. “Same to you, and save you kindly, honest man,” says Thady, “but what med you want, for the house is in throuble jist now.” “Och! Misther Brophy,” says the other, “I’m Larry Reilly, the fiddler and stonemason, an’ I thought to have fiddled for yer dance to-­morrow, but I heerd the story of how bad her ladyship was, an’ I jist come up to see av’ I couldn’t cure her!” “Is it cure her?” ses Thady, “I’ll give ye a ten pound note av’ you do. But I have had the docthor an’ the priest, an’ the policeman, an’ it’s all no good, an’ she’s goin’ off to-morrow mornin,” he ses. “Nivir mind, yer honour,” ses Larry, “I’d like to have a thry for the tin pound note.” “An’ how’ll you do it,” says Thady. “O, the best thing in the worreld, wid a case like that,” ses Larry, lookin’ as wise as if he was seven docth
ors at wanst, “is to show the patient her tombstone, an’ let her see it’s all in airnest about her havin’ to die. Women’s so contrairy, that that’s the very thing makes them make up their mind to live.” “Ah,” ses Thady, “you’re a stonemason, an’ so you think her tombstone would cure her. I suppose you know ’twas a shoemaker who said there was nothin’ like leather! An’ how ’ud you manage to show her her tombstone whin the poor crayture has to be off to-morrow morning?” “Well, let me thry,” ses Larry Reilly, as bould as brass; “there is a spell about it, an’ give me two hours by meself in the bake­house, to fight the ghosts out of their charrum, an’ I’ll undertake to show Mrs. Brophy the appearance of her tombstone by nine o’clock, an’ maybe she’ll be well by mornin.” “It’ll be the death of you, honest man,” ses Thady; “you’ll never bate the ghosts.” “I’ll have a thry for the tin pound note,” ses Larry, “give me a pound of candles an’ a pint of whiskey, an’ lock me in till I conquer them,” he says; an’ so Thady, as a last chance, did as he was told. Well, Larry wint in, an’ Thady listened at the doore. Presently he heard the sperits an’ Larry fightin­’ hammer an’ tongs like one o’clock: smashin’, dashin’, drivin’, noise enough to finish poor Mrs. Brophy, an’ she sint down to know what it was. Up he wint, an’ sed it was a sperit docthor thryin’ to save her life an’ fightin’ the sperits like mad. Well, this cheered thim both up a bit, an’ much sooner nor they thought all was quiet, an’ presently Larry called to be let out. There he was, all in a lather, as you med think. “I’ve vanquished the sperits,” he sed, an’ sure enough the whiskey bottle was upside down in his hand. “An’ I’ve made thim give me Mrs. Brophy’s tombstone, to cure your wife with. Here it is, we’ll bring it up stairs.” An’ sure enough there was a fine tombstone, six foot by eighteen inches, with ould writing on it. “Well, that bates all,” ses Thady, for he was dumbfoundhered to think of Larry mastherin’ the sperits, an’ they struggled up stairs with the tombstone to Mrs. Brophy’s doore. Biddy was in a blazin’ rage at first to think Thady would get her tombstone cut before she died; but thin she felt flatthered to think she’d have sich a handsome wan, an’ so she read it to see if it was right about her age, for nobody likes to be dated wrong. “Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Bridget Brophy, of Glanbrophy, who died Christmas Day, 1666.” “O ye haythin,” she cried, “ye’ve put me 200 years wrong! Get along wed ye both ye hard-hearted savages, av’ I must die, let me die in modern times anyhow,” an’ as she was wake she began to cry agin. “Mrs. Brophy,” ses Larry, wid a good-humoured laugh on his face; “I’m the best docthor in the place for your complaint, an’ I’m to have tin pounds for curin’ you, an’ I’m to fiddle at yer housewarmin’, to-morrow night. This isn’t your tombstone at all at all. It’s the stone that was over one of the ould Brophys, 200 years ago, whin the back garden was a church­yard; an’ whin the ould oven wanted a new flure afore you come in here, I was set to do it, an’ I put in this ould tomb­stone, an’ you set yer bread on it, and got the letthers off; an’ you thought the 6 was an 8, for the figures was worn down, an’ you read 1866 instead of 1666; an’ now that you know the saycret, I’ll warrant you’ll soon git well.” Well, I need hardly tell yez, she did get well, an’ Thady ped Larry Reilly ten pounds on the spot, an’ they had a tearin’ dance on Christmas night, an’ Larry fiddled, an’ Thady an’ Biddy danced as if they was a couple of kittens, an’ all the country side took to calling Larry Docthor Reilly, for the wonderful cure he made. An’ whinever any one talks of ghosts, Thady an’ Biddy swagger and scold as if they believed in nothin’ of the kind, an’ as if they never had been scared by the haunted oven of Glanbrophy.

  THE DEVIL’S OWN by Lilian Quiller Couch

  We all wondered why Octavius Nottage married at seventeen. Octavius Nottage is the youth who drives his father’s wagon to fetch and carry linen from our town to the laundry in his own village. An ordinary boy was Octavius until a year or so ago; just ruddy, and grubby, and scented with the boyish scent of brimstone marbles. His name had been bestowed on him by his parents out of compliment to a young gentleman of that family in which Mrs. Nottage had been a nursemaid—the eighth young gentleman in a family of eleven. True it so happened that Octavius Nottage was a first and only child, but there be still some persons living who stride over trifles, and level all difficulties with the besom of disregard; and John and Jane Nottage were of this class.

  When first we knew Octavius he was sturdy and mischievous, travelling to and from town and village in the wagon as a sort of unpleasant consequence of John Nottage’s rheumatism, fidgetting among the bundles and baskets throughout the journeys for the sole purpose of loading and unloading at the terminus. Then came a time when John Nottage devoted his entire attention to his pain and sat home to give the fiend no cause for jealousy; then were the horse and wagon entrusted to Octavius, who rejoiced thereat, for Octavius was now sixteen, and much preferred the handling of the reins and the breaking of his own record to that forced repose on the uneven surface of somebody’s week’s washing, to which he had hitherto been doomed. He enjoyed himself, the grinning young ruffian, and we could not find it in our hearts to reproach him for his heartlessness.

  But there came a year, a whole twelve months, in which Octavius changed utterly; he grew tall—that, to be sure, was only what one might expect, or at least hope—but in addition to this his face grew white to ghastliness; his eyes stared with a hunted, haunted expression from out his pallor, and he became gloomy as the veriest pessimist. We all noted the change; we all deplored it. Then at the end of twelve months Octavius married, and our regrets turned to prudent disapproval of the imprudence of his act.

  “Love” and “ghosts” are superstitions which gain but little credence in these days of science and health exhibitions; but in the story of Octavius Nottage we have to face a strong similitude to both these superstitions; and as yet there is no explanation ready.

  On the first morning of that enervating year Octavius drove into town with his baskets as usual, delivered them with a grin and a joke of equal breadth at their respective area doors, remounted his seat on the knify edge of the wagon, and started for home, whistling “Primo” of a duet with the rattle of wheels as he went.

  This was pleasant and commonplace enough in its way: but when Octavius reached the margin of the town a strange thing happened. With the wagon still rumbling on, with the rattle of the wheels still in his ears, with the whistle still on his lips, his eyes chanced to glance down at the shafts, and there he saw, clambering up the step even as the wagon went at its full speed, a grimy little child of hideous features, with blazing yellow eyes, and a few tawny rags wrapped round about it.

  “Hullo, there,” shouted Octavius cheerfully, above the clatter of his own advancing, “get down, you young brat.”

  But the child neither looked at him nor answered him; it just climbed on persistently, regardless of the wagoner’s rights as of its own danger.

  “Little beggar, you!” shouted Octavius again, “d’ye hear what I say; get down.”

  Still the child gave no answering sign.

  “Oh, all right; we’ll soon see about that,” quoth Octavius; and slackening speed a trifle he leaned forward to take the young trespasser by the shoulder that he might drop him over the side of the wagon, with care as with determination; but—there was no shoulder! his hand went grasping air!

  Octavius drew back in horror, and the blood ebbed out of his face, while the clutching hand went shaking as with palsy. But even as he looked, there sat the child, grimy and hideous on the foot-board beside his very feet, gazing with those blazing yellow eyes from out its evil countenance at the horse as it ambled on its way.

  Then did the heart of Octavius turn to water behind his ribs; then did his tune trail off inelegantly in mid-bar as his mouth drew lax with horror; then did the taut reins slacken in his hands, as his face stiffened coldly. For here in broad daylight, before this ruddy, healthy youth, clothed in corduroy, on a commonplace wagon lacking
paint, and hung about with gaudy signs of modern soaps and matchless cleansers, sat a ghost; a grimy, pallid, evil-featured ghost, who asked no permission and heeded no remonstrance.

  For a mile or more the horse jogged on unguided, while Octavius stood wide-eyed and horror-struck on the foot-board beside that—thing! and took no count of time or place. It was awful! As the moments went by it seemed to Octavius as if things must always have been in this wise—just he, and it, and the rattling wagon, with no part for him to play but to endure.

  Then as the wagon neared the village, from the thing beside him came a short, hellish shriek; and then there was empty space where the thing had sat, and nothing remained but the echo of that shriek in his ears. The sound roused him into some sort of action; he leaned forward, he shouted “Whoa!” to the horse, from his dry throat, though he had no strength to pull the reins, and he staggered down from the shaft to the ground that he might witness the departure of the creature. He looked before him and behind him, but it was not to be seen; then did he stare at the common stretching away on either side of him, at the sky, at the pools; but there was no trace of the hideous thing who had claimed conveyance from him; no echo of footfall, no footprint in the dust.

  When Octavius reached his home that afternoon the shock of his journey had already left its mark upon him. His heart cowered within him in childish shame and fear of ridicule, and he said nothing of the horror he had gone through; he, whose communicativeness had driven his father not infrequently to quote copiously from proverbs bearing upon “the speech of fools,” and his mother to suggest kindly but daily that it was always as well to eat a dinner while it was hot, and talk afterwards; he, I say, spoke no word of what he had seen, and even unconsciously rubbed his cheeks with his fists to soften that grey rigidity which had fallen upon them. But the terror which Octavius suffered that night when he went to his lonely little bedroom was such as no rubbing of cheeks could destroy the effect of next morning, and it brought upon him Jane Nottage’s traditional cure for pallor, a decoction which smelt of many powerful herbs, but was calculated to prove more efficacious in cases of gormandising than of ghosts.