by Louise Welsh
“What is this, Hartley?” she says in a whisper. “Are you ill? What are you doing here at this hour?”
“I am not ill, madam; but my bell rang.”
At that she turned pale, and seemed about to fall.
“You are mistaken,” she said harshly; “I didn’t ring. You must have been dreaming.” I had never heard her speak in such a tone. “Go back to bed,” she said, closing the door on me.
But as she spoke I heard sounds again in the hall below: a man’s step this time; and the truth leaped out on me.
“Madam,” I said, pushing past her, “there is someone in the house –…”
“Someone –?”
“Mr. Brympton, I think – I hear his step below –…”
A dreadful look came over her, and without a word, she dropped flat at my feet. I fell on my knees and tried to lift her: by the way she breathed I saw it was no common faint. But as I raised her head there came quick steps on the stairs and across the hall: the door was flung open, and there stood Mr. Brympton, in his travelling-clothes, the snow dripping from him. He drew back with a start as he saw me kneeling by my mistress.
“What the devil is this?” he shouted. He was less high-colored than usual, and the red spot came out on his forehead.
“Mrs. Brympton has fainted, sir,” said I.
He laughed unsteadily and pushed by me. “It’s a pity she didn’t choose a more convenient moment. I’m sorry to disturb her, but –…”
I raised myself up, aghast at the man’s action.
“Sir,” said I, “are you mad? What are you doing?”
“Going to meet a friend,” said he, and seemed to make for the dressing-room.
At that my heart turned over. I don’t know what I thought or feared; but I sprang up and caught him by the sleeve.
“Sir, sir,” said I, “for pity’s sake look at your wife!”
He shook me off furiously.
“It seems that’s done for me,” says he, and caught hold of the dressing-room door.
At that moment I heard a slight noise inside. Slight as it was, he heard it too, and tore the door open; but as he did so he dropped back. On the threshold stood Emma Saxon. All was dark behind her, but I saw her plainly, and so did he. He threw up his hands as if to hide his face from her; and when I looked again she was gone.
He stood motionless, as if the strength had run out of him; and in the stillness my mistress suddenly raised herself, and opening her eyes fixed a look on him. Then she fell back, and I saw the death-flutter pass over her….
We buried her on the third day, in a driving snow-storm. There were few people in the church, for it was bad weather to come from town, and I’ve a notion my mistress was one that hadn’t many near friends. Mr. Ranford was among the last to come, just before they carried her up the aisle. He was in black, of course, being such a friend of the family, and I never saw a gentleman so pale. As he passed me, I noticed that he leaned a trifle on a stick he carried; and I fancy Mr. Brympton noticed it too, for the red spot came out sharp on his forehead, and all through the service he kept staring across the church at Mr. Ranford, instead of following the prayers as a mourner should.
When it was over and we went out to the graveyard, Mr. Ranford had disappeared, and as soon as my poor mistress’s body was underground, Mr. Brympton jumped into the carriage nearest the gate and drove off without a word to any of us. I heard him call out, “To the station,” and we servants went back alone to the house.
THE TERRIBLE OLD MAN
H.P. Lovecraft
Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890–1937) was born and spent most of his life in Providence, Rhode Island. Lovecraft’s father died in an asylum and his mother was also later institutionalised. A highly intelligent child, his formal education was disrupted by a series of nervous collapses. Lovecraft was best known to readers of American horror and pulp fiction during his lifetime. His critical reputation has grown posthumously, despite accusations of racism.
The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the Terrible Old Man which generally keep him safe from the attention of gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his musty and venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person, believed to have been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day; so old that no one can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large stones, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man about his long white hair and beard, or to break the small – paned windows of his dwelling with wicked missiles; but there are other things which frighten the older and more curious folk who sometimes steal up to the house to peer in through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a table in a bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string. And they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar – Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer.
Those who have watched the tall, lean, Terrible Old Man in these peculiar conversations, do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood; they were of that new and heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New England life and traditions, and they saw in the Terrible Old Man merely a tottering, almost helpless grey-beard, who could not walk without the aid of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully. They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely, unpopular old fellow, whom everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs barked singularly. But business is business, and to a robber whose soul is in his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very old and very feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.
Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva selected the night of April 11th for their call. Mr. Ricci and Mr. Silva were to interview the poor old gentleman, whilst Mr. Czanek waited for them and their presumable metallic burden with a covered motorcar in Ship Street, by the gate in the tall rear wall of their host’s grounds. Desire to avoid needless explanations in case of unexpected police intrusions prompted these plans for a quiet and unostentatious departure.
As prearranged, the three adventurers started out separately in order to prevent any evil-minded suspicions afterward. Messrs. Ricci and Silva met in Water Street by the old man’s front gate, and although they did not like the way the moon shone down upon the painted stones through the budding branches of the gnarled trees, they had more important things to think about than mere idle superstition. They feared it might be unpleasant work making the Terrible Old Man loquacious concerning his hoarded gold and silver, for aged sea – captains are notably stubborn and perverse. Still, he was very old and very feeble, and there were two visitors. Messrs. Ricci and Silva were experienced in the art of making unwilling persons voluble, and the screams of a weak and exceptionally venerable man can be easily muffled. So they moved up to the one lighted window and heard the Terrible Old Man talking childishly to his bottles with pendulums. Then they donned masks and knocked politely at the weather-stained oaken door.
Waiting seemed very long to Mr. Czanek as he fidgeted restlessly in the covered motorcar by the Terrible Old Man’s back gate in Ship Street. He was more than ordinarily tender-hearted, and he did not like the hideous screams he had heard in the ancient house just after the hour appointed for the deed. Had he not told his colleagues to be as gentle as possible with the pathetic old sea-captain? Very nervously he watched that narrow oaken gate in the high and ivy-clad s
tone wall. Frequently he consulted his watch, and wondered at the delay. Had the old man died before revealing where his treasure was hidden, and had a thorough search become necessary? Mr. Czanek did not like to wait so long in the dark in such a place. Then he sensed a soft tread or tapping on the walk inside the gate, heard a gentle fumbling at the rusty latch, and saw the narrow, heavy door swing inward. And in the pallid glow of the single dim streetlamp he strained his eyes to see what his colleagues had brought out of that sinister house which loomed so close behind. But when he looked, he did not see what he had expected; for his colleagues were not there at all, but only the Terrible Old Man leaning quietly on his knotted cane and smiling hideously. Mr. Czanek had never before noticed the colour of that man’s eyes; now he saw that they were yellow.
Little things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is the reason that Kingsport people talked all that spring and summer about the three unidentifiable bodies, horribly slashed as with many cutlasses, and horribly mangled as by the tread of many cruel boot-heels, which the tide washed in. And some people even spoke of things as trivial as the deserted motorcar found in Ship Street, or certain especially inhuman cries, probably of a stray animal or migratory bird, heard in the night by wakeful citizens. But in this idle village gossip the Terrible Old Man took no interest at all. He was by nature reserved, and when one is aged and feeble, one’s reserve is doubly strong. Besides, so ancient a sea-captain must have witnessed scores of things much more stirring in the far-off days of his unremembered youth.
THE GHOST
Richmal Crompton
Richmal Crompton Lamburn (1890–1969) was born in Bury, Lancashire. Her William stories, which starred a stoutly independent, naughty eleven-year-old, eclipsed her more serious novels, and Crompton was later to call the character ‘my Frankenstein monster’. Crompton’s non-gendered first name led many of her readers to assume she was a man. She taught classics, but in 1923 contracted poliomyelitis which resulted in a paralysed right leg and put an end to her teaching career. Crompton was a supporter of women’s suffrage.
William lay on the floor of the barn, engrossed in a book. This was a rare thing with William. His bottle of lemonade lay untouched by his side, and he even forgot the half-eaten apple which reposed in his hand. His jaws were arrested midway in the act of munching.
“Our hero,” he read, “was awakened about midnight by the sound of the rattling of chains. Raising himself on his arm he gazed into the darkness. About a foot from his bed he could discern a tall, white, faintly-gleaming figure and a ghostly arm which beckoned him.”
William’s hair stood on end.
“Crumbs!” he ejaculated.
“Nothing perturbed,” he continued to read, “our hero rose and followed the spectre through the long winding passages of the old castle. Whenever he hesitated, a white, luminous arm, hung around with ghostly chains, beckoned him on.”
“Gosh!” murmured the enthralled William. “I’d have bin scared!”
“At the panel in the wall the ghost stopped, and silently the panel slid aside, revealing a flight of stone steps. Down this went the apparition followed by our intrepid hero. There was a small stone chamber at the bottom, and into this the rays of moonlight poured, revealing a skeleton in a sitting attitude beside a chest of golden sovereigns. The gold gleamed in the moonlight.”
“Golly!” gasped William, red with excitement.
“William!”
The cry came from somewhere in the sunny garden outside. William frowned sternly, took another bite of apple, and continued to read.
“Our hero gave a cry of astonishment.”
“Yea, I’d have done that all right,” agreed William.
“William!”
“Oh, shut up!” called William, irritably, thereby revealing his hiding-place.
His grownup sister, Ethel, appeared in the doorway.
“Mother wants you,” she announced.
“Well, I can’t come. I’m busy,” said William, coldly, taking a draught of lemonade and returning to his book.
“Cousin Mildred’s come,” continued his sister.
William raised his freckled face from his book.
“Well, I can’t help that, can I?” he said, with the air of one arguing patiently with a lunatic.
Ethel shrugged her shoulders and departed.
“He’s reading some old book in the barn,” he heard her announce, “and he says –…”
Here he foresaw complications and hastily followed her.
“Well, I’m comin’, aren’t I?” he said, “as fast as I can.”
Cousin Mildred was sitting on the lawn. She was elderly and very thin and very tall, and she wore a curious, long, shapeless garment of green silk with a golden girdle.
“Dear child!” she murmured, taking the grimy hand that William held out to her in dignified silence.
He was cheered by the sight of tea and hot cakes.
Cousin Mildred ate little but talked much.
“I’m living in hopes of a psychic revelation, dear,” she said to William’s mother. “In hopes! I’ve heard of wonderful experiences, but so far none – alas! – have befallen me. Automatic writing I have tried, but any communication the spirits may have sent me that way remained illegible – quite illegible.”
She sighed.
William eyed her with scorn while he consumed reckless quantities of hot cakes.
“I would love to have a psychic revelation,” she sighed again.
“Yes, dear,” murmured Mrs. Brown, mystified. “William, you’ve had enough.”
“Enough?” said William, in surprise. “Why I’ve only had –…” He decided hastily against exact statistics and in favour of vague generalities.
“I’ve only had hardly any,” he said, aggrievedly.
“You’ve had enough, anyway,” said Mrs. Brown firmly.
The martyr rose, pale but proud.
“Well, can I go then, if I can’t have any more tea?”
“There’s plenty of bread and butter.”
“I don’t want bread and butter,” he said, scornfully.
“Dear child!” murmured Cousin Mildred, vaguely, as he departed.
He returned to the story and lemonade and apple, and stretched himself happily at full length in the shady barn.
“But the ghostly visitant seemed to be fading away, and with a soft sigh was gone. Our hero, with a start of surprise, realised that he was alone with the gold and the skeleton. For the first time he experienced a thrill of cold fear and slowly retreated up the stairs before the hollow and, as it seemed, vindictive stare of the grinning skeleton.”
“I wonder wot he was grinnin’ at?” said William.
“But to his horror the door was shut, the panel had slid back. He had no means of opening it. He was imprisoned on a remote part of the castle, where even the servants came but rarely, and at intervals of weeks. Would his fate be that of the man whose bones gleamed white in the moonlight?”
“Crumbs!” said William, earnestly.
Then a shadow fell upon the floor of the barn, and Cousin Mildred’s voice greeted him.
“So you’re here, dear? I’m just exploring your garden and thinking. I like to be alone. I see that you are the same, dear child!”
“I’m readin’,” said William, with icy dignity.
“Dear boy! Won’t you come and show me the garden and your favourite nooks and corners?”
William looked at her thin, vague, amiable face, and shut his book with a resigned sigh.
“All right,” he said, laconically.
He conducted her in patient silence round the kitchen garden and the shrubbery. She looked sadly at the house, with its red brick, uncompromisingly-modern appearance.
“William, I wish your house was old,” she said, sadly.
William resented any aspersions on his house from outsiders. Personally he considered newness in a house an attraction, but, if anyone wished for age, then old his house should b
e.
“Old!” he ejaculated. “Huh! I guess it’s old enough.”
“Oh, is it?” she said, delighted. “Restored recently, I suppose?”
“Umph,” agreed William, nodding.
“Oh, I’m so glad. I may have some psychic revelation here, then?”
“Oh yes,” said William, judicially. “I shouldn’t wonder.”
“William, have you ever had one?”
“Well,” said William, guardedly, “I dunno.”
His mysterious manner threw her into a transport.
“Of course not to anyone. But to me – I’m one of the sympathetic! To me you may speak freely, William.”
William, feeling that his ignorance could no longer be hidden by words, maintained a discreet silence.
“To me it shall be sacred, William. I will tell no one – not even your parents. I believe that children see – clouds of glory and all that,” vaguely. “With your unstained childish vision –…”
“I’m eleven,” put in William indignantly.
“You see things that to the wise are sealed. Some manifestation, some spirit, some ghostly visitant –…”
“Oh,” said William, suddenly enlightened, “you talkin’ about ghosts?”
“Yes, ghosts, William.”
Her air of deference flattered him. She evidently expected great things of him. Great things she should have. At the best of times with William imagination was stronger than cold facts.
He gave a short laugh.
“Oh, ghosts! Yes, I’ve seen some of ’em. I guess I have!”
Her face lit up.
“Will you tell me some of your experiences, William?” she said, humbly.
“Well,” said William, loftily, “you won’t go talkin’ about it, will you?”
“Oh, no.”
“Well, I’ve seen ’em, you know. Chains an’ all. And skeletons. And ghostly arms beckonin’ an’ all that.”
