The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories

by Simon Stern

  “Come here!” shouted the stranger, and Octavius went to him.

  “Ah!” he cried aloud as he bent over the man, and saw what lay in his arms. “Can you hold it? Can you touch it? Oh, my God!” There in the white dust lay the semblance of the spirit which he had defied, the child who had been such a hideous burden in his life, who had changed him from a ruddy, sturdy boy to a picture of living death, who had haunted him night and day, in sight and out of sight, who had drained the courage from his heart and bade fair to steal the reason from his brain; there it lay with its head on the stranger’s arm, its grimy rags displaced, its bloodless limbs limp and lifeless, its hideous features distorted, its yellow eyes half-closed—dead.

  “Hold it?” cried the stranger, looking up in wonder, “there is no difficulty in holding the poor little fellow now, he is dead. It was quite an accident, I must say; the child seemed to spring from nowhere, and my horse was upon it in an instant.”

  Octavius made no answer; he stood stunned by the force of circumstances, while Admonition crept slowly to the spot, and stood beside him. Octavius stretched his hand towards her, and she held it fast in hers; and still he gazed down upon the stranger’s burden and marvelled, for if he might believe his eyes, the spirit-­child was but a creature of flesh and blood, and moreover it was killed. But Admonition did not give so much as a single glance to the dead child at her feet; her eyes were fixed with feverish intensity upon the stranger who held it.

  “Well,” said the stranger, looking up at them with some appearance of surprise at their strange silence, “there is nothing more to be done for the poor little fellow now. My cart is rather damaged, but I think it will hold together until I reach the town, and I think it will be better for me to take the child’s body with me and explain matters when I get there. There is but small harm done to your wagon. Just tell me your name that I may be able to communicate with you.”

  And Octavius told his name as in a dream, and as they stood, he and Admonition, and watched with wide, hunted eyes as the stranger laid the little corpse in his cart, examining the damage done to that vehicle, bade them “Good-night,” and then drove swiftly from them along the moon-lit road.

  The “Good-night” echoed in their ears unanswered, and still these two lovers stood there watching. At last Octavius turned to Admonition, and there was an awful look stamped upon his face.

  “What does it all mean?” he asked hoarsely.

  “ ’Tis the devil carrying off his own,” she answered solemnly.

  Then the horror of it all came rushing over her, she turned and clung to Octavius, and there came such a storm of tears as her calm eyes had never known before.

  “Let us go home,” she sobbed, “let us go home.”

  So he kissed her and comforted her, and the doing of it steadied his own reason as nothing else could have done; and with the moon still flooding the world, and shining on their white and horrified faces, they journeyed home.

  From that night no sight nor sound of the stranger, nor of the spirit-child, ever reached Octavius or Admonition.

  The marriage took place a few weeks later; and since hearing the story of their wooing, the imprudence of the alliance appears less inexcusable.

  A CHRISTMAS GHOST STORY by Anonymous

  There was not a prettier picture anywhere than the water mill, where the country people in the neighbourhood of Darnforth took their wheat to be ground. It was worth a long walk to see the Old Brook, as it was called, turn the great wheel, and dance in a thousand glittering drops from every mossy timber; and to hear it, after it broke away from the task and darted off under the great black arch below, was to be deafened with wild and turbulent music.

  Frank Underwood, the owner of the Old Brook mill, and the proprietor of the fine house close by, was once very poor, and, paradoxical as it may appear, was suddenly ruined by becoming very rich. When he was a young fellow, the pride of the neighbouring village, the hope of the adjacent town, and the betrothed of Alice Martin, a rich uncle died and left him heir to a fine estate, upon which stood the Old Brook mill.

  With an approved worldliness that you might hardly have looked for in such a quiet rural district, young Underwood broke off the engagement between himself and Alice; but he was punished for his perfidy. Riotous living and unfortunate speculations soon reduced him to ruin and bankruptcy, and, like many another, when he lost his gold he lost his friends too. The only being who did not desert him in affliction was the sweetheart of his boyhood. When those who had been his companions in the days of his wealth had left him, she hastened to him to be a comfort and solace in his misery. But Alice Martin fell a sacrifice to her devotion and her lover’s insincerity. Scandal wove its meshes about her fair fame, and deprived her of the shelter of a father’s roof. The blow fell too heavily for her weak nature to bear, and a frozen corpse, taken from the Old Brook soon afterwards, told her sad story of suffering and woe.

  After this, Frank Underwood stood alone in the world, a friendless and wretched man. Securing by loan enough money to purchase the mill where his uncle had made his money, Frank left the big town where he had been unfortunate, and, as years rolled on, he regained nearly all the lost estate. By-and-by everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. The country people said he had sold himself to the devil. He became a thorough money-­grabbing, snarling skinflint like old Scrooge, and he had the same hatred of Christmas, and, indeed, for every other festival which in any way interfered with his worldly arrangements. What Scrooge was to the city of London, Underwood was to the Darnforth district; and I can vouch for the truth of every detail connected with this history of his love affair with Alice Martin.

  It was evening. The Christmas chimes were ringing in the villagers, and the dear, old-fashioned music came sounding through the air from Oldbrook.

  For an hour or more the miller sat rocking himself to and fro in his chair. At length the night grew darker and darker, until, save now and then in the flicker of the firelight, he could scarcely see across his little room. The noise in the village grew still, the bells ceased telling their “tidings of great joy,” and the regular “tick-tack, tick-tack” of the old clock on the stairs became more distinct. The fire was low, the wind was high, and now and then a hiss on the smouldering ashes told of the falling snow without.

  Presently old Underwood looked up, and found that he was not alone. A figure was seated opposite to him, watching him with a huge pair of lustrous eyes, which, for a time, held him in motionless fascination. But the miller had a stout heart. He soon rallied, and demanded the business of his mysterious visitor.

  The shadow with the eyes informed him that he was the ghostly representative of his uncle, who, when he died, fearing that his heir might be a spendthrift, had buried a large amount of treasure near the oak tree on the common. He felt, now that his nephew had gone through the fire of adversity, seen the result of extravagance, and had turned out so excellent a money-­getter, that he could not rest in his grave without Frank dug up the hidden treasure.

  “I’ll do it, I’ll do it, if it’s all fair and no humbug, Mr. What’s-your-name,” said the miller, trembling before the shadow.

  “Then follow me,” said the visitor.

  “To-morrow,” replied old Frank, the miller; “to-morrow I’ll dig it up.”

  “To-night you shall do it—to-night!” said the spirit.

  The window shook, a gush of wind rushed down the chimney, the doors opened with a bang, and the miller followed his ghostly leader into the freezing Christmas air. The miller saw nothing but the glaring eyes of the ghost, and he followed them until he stood by the old oak tree on the common.

  A spade and a pick-axe were lying by the tree, and the miser, despite the coming infirmity of age, went lustily to work. For an hour the spirit stood by, glaring at the gold-finder.

  Suddenly the axe struck against a hard substance.

  “ ’Tis there!” said the spirit.

  “ ’Tis there!” went echoing over the common
.

  “ ’Tis there!” was repeated by a thousand voices in the air.

  The miller would have fallen, all but speechless, had he not suddenly discovered that his visitor had departed. But he soon rallied again. The passionate craving for gold was upon him, and he resumed his digging. The substance with which his axe had come in contact was an old-fashioned urn, full of guineas, notes on a local bank, and precious stones. It was all the miller could do to lift it.

  “Oh, oh,” he chuckled, as he feasted his eyes upon it. “I can satisfy my grudge against Simpkins and Co. There shall be a run on the Oldbrook bank to-morrow. Why should I help the poor?” he continued, as if answering a question suggested by the inward monitor; “I was poor myself. Nobody helped me. The poor, indeed, with their ‘Merry Christmas!’ ”

  Until the perspiration rolled down his face, the miller laboured to put the urn and its treasure on his shoulder, and at last he succeeded. But why does he tremble? Why do his eyes appear to be starting from his head? Why does he sink to the earth, and cry for mercy?

  The urn has changed. On the miller’s shoulders crouches a demon, fearful to contemplate! It is peering into his face with a fiendish grin. The old oak tree, too, is changed. Jabbering sprites are swinging about in the creaking branches, and swarming around the supplicating miser. They hiss at him, and the air is filled with their fiendish laughter.

  At this moment the miller would gladly have given up one half of his wealth to have been once more at home at his mill. He prayed loudly and fiercely for mercy, and, hoarse with crying, he fell senseless to the earth, at the foot of the old oak tree. By-and-by he was raised from the earth. At his side stood the figure which had first lured him from home, but without that terrible appearance which it had at first assumed. The tree had disappeared: the common, too, was gone; and there was a weight upon the miller’s back which needed no care on his part to keep there.

  “Where are we?” asked the miller, turning to his ghostly attendant.

  “Ask no questions, but pay attention to what thou seest. I have driven hence the fiends who terrified thee, and am now here, at the command of my master Time, to show thee pictures of the past. The veil of the future will also be partially lifted to thy gaze, but it is in thy power to alter what I shall there show thee. Thy deeds in the past have been judged. Thy yesterday, a furrow on the sand, has been washed out by the returning tide of to-day. The future alone is open to thee,” said the ghost.

  They were at the outskirts of a beautiful village. There was a fragrant smell of newly-mown hay in the air. Trees, clothed in all the beautiful verdure of refulgent summer, stretched long, leafy arms over the spot where Frank and his companion stood. The shades of evening hung a misty mantle around them, which the pale moon, just rising, strove in vain to disperse. A youth was walking in the moonlight, and a gentle girl leaned lovingly on his arm. The garb of a peasant set off the manly form of the youth. The maid was also clad simply, and her long brown hair fell in careless tresses over her shoulders.

  “It is! it is!” exclaimed Frank, much agitated.

  “Silence!” said the ghost. “Listen!”

  “Alice, dear Alice,” whispered the youth, “when we have money enough, marriage shall free you from his persecution. Fear not. Ere long I shall earn more; and some day, when poor old uncle leaves this world, I may be rich.”

  “Hush, dear Frank! We will not build our hopes on the dead. I have saved a little, and we shall yet be happy. I do not desire that we should be rich.”

  “But that fellow James is wealthy, and he would marry you to-morrow. He loves you, too, and might make you happy. He can give you comforts which you may never look to have with me, dear Alice.”

  “If you love me, Frank, is that not enough for me? Could I not suffer, if it were necessary, and be happy still if you were by my side?”

  “Bless you!” exclaimed the youth, clasping the hand of Alice with fervour, and pressing a hot, burning kiss upon her forehead. “You shall never regret your love, Alice.”

  And they walked slowly away beneath the elm trees.

  “Oh, let us follow them! Good ghost, pray let us follow them. I know them well. We are in my native village. The beautiful girl is Alice.”

  “And the youth is Frank Underwood,” replied the ghost.

  “I would follow them,” said the miller.

  “ ’Tis useless. Whomsoever you see, they cannot see you. We are to them no more than air; these are the shadows of the past,” said the ghost.

  Frank attempted to follow the lovers, notwithstanding, but the weight on his back pulled him to the earth.

  “Take it away—gold or diamonds, remove the weight!” groaned the old man; but still it pressed heavily upon him.

  “I meant to be true to her, I did indeed,” said the old man, as the scene changed again.

  Frank Underwood, Esq., once the peasant youth, now the wealthy manufacturer, sat at the head of his own table in his own dining-room. Around him were a crowd of sycophants, male and female. The master of the house was carrying on a pleasant flirtation with an ogling, painted beauty.

  Ere the miller could speak, the village was before him again. He stood on the same spot where he had seen the lovers only a few minutes before. Alice, grown into womanhood, was there—alone with her sorrows.

  “I saw him, but he never heeded me. He turned from me in scorn, and the servants drove me from his door. I will never go again. Now that he is rich, it is not likely that he can love a poor girl like me. No one loves me now. Tired of asking me to accept the hand of Mr. James, father scarcely speaks to me save in anger; and when poor, dear mother died she would not have her broken-­hearted Alice near her.”

  Thus, between sobs and tears, spoke the beautiful Alice, as she glided slowly past the miller, and his unearthly guide.

  “Poor soul! God forgive me!” exclaimed Frank on his knees. “Take me away; I can see no more. I’m going mad!” almost shrieked the old man. “I loved her again—I did, I did!” he continued.

  Once more the scene changed. They were within the walls of a prison. Frank Underwood was in a debtor’s gaol. By his side stood Alice.

  “I could not desert you when I heard you were in distress, although you drove me from you in your prosperity,” said the girl.

  The man groaned audibly, and big tears were in his eyes.

  “I repent—I repent! but ’tis useless now. You can never love me again. You can never forgive me.”

  “I can!” said the girl.

  “You cannot love a prisoner, a bankrupt, an outcast from society.”

  “Ah, you do not know a woman’s heart! I can love you now more than ever, if that were possible. Can you love Alice again?”

  “I can—but I have said so before and proved false to you. I hate myself; I am wretched, miserable, mad. Go home, poor girl, go home!” said the man, in terrible accents.

  “I shall soon have no home except in heaven. This visit to you which has cost me a day and a night of hard walking, may rob me of the last spark of a father’s love. Think of your younger days! Think of your promises! Think!” said the girl, looking earnestly into the prisoner’s face.

  “I do, and am mad with remorse; but I may yet atone.”

  At this moment a turnkey bade Alice depart.

  “Stop, stop!” cried the miller. “I loved her—I loved her then—I meant to atone. Let her know that, at least,” he said; but the prison and its occupants vanished.

  Once again the village appeared. It was a cold winter night. The snow was on the ground. No living form, save that of a woman, was visible.

  “I cannot bear it,” said Alice, as she hurried by the spot where the miller and the ghost were standing. “Driven from home, footsore, disgraced by the tongue of scandal, weak, cold, houseless. It is too much for me; and how do I know that he will even now love me again? Oh! no, no; I am going mad.”

  “He will—he does!” cried poor old Underwood, the miser miller.

  “Follow her, and se
e still more of the effects of riches. Go, man, and see thine own handiwork,” said the ghost; and the miller hastened after the wretched woman.

  The noise of the Old Brook was heard in the distance, as it fell from the mill-dam and roared beneath the water-wheel. Louder and louder became the noise of the torrent. Nearer and nearer approached the woman towards the river.

  “I could save her now but for this horrible load,” cried the miller, satisfied of her wild intent. “Take it away—take it away!” he shrieked; but the demon sat still more heavily upon him.

  The ghost was by his side to taunt and to warn.

  “ ’Tis the gold you dug out of the common. You’ll want it; gold is your idol, old man.”

  “Not now—never again,” shrieked the miller. “O Heaven, remove this weight!”

  They were now close to the mill-dam. A gleam of moonlight played upon the river. The water-wheel clicked in solemn regularity. Old Underwood was within reach of the flying maiden. He put out his hand to save her—once more his load of riches dragged him to the ground.

  “Save her! oh, save her! dear, dear, Alice!” rang over the waters; but the Old Brook had received the suicide, and the mill-wheel went round, and the water rolled on as before.

  “Take away the weight! it burns me, it pierces my heart—I am dying! Mercy, mercy!” cried Frank.

  “Why, whatever’s the matter, Mr. Underwood?” cried Sarah, his housekeeper, who had just returned from an evening visit, and found her master lying on the floor gasping for breath. “Whatever have you been a-doing, sir?” she said, as she proceeded to lift him up.

  “Oh, Sarah, Sarah—where am I? Take off the weight—take it off!” cried the terrified miller.

  “Why, you’re where I left you, sir. Dear-a-me, where do you think you are?”

  “Light the candles; but don’t leave me,” he said, seizing her by the arm.