Until that point, Lord B---’s son seemed not to care what his wife did, but her being with child when it was well-known the two had no relations was a dangerous insult to both the man and his family. Lord B---, desperately wanting a grandchild but wary of his family’s honor and his son’s wrath towards his wife—and her lover, should the identity of the man be discovered—suggested perhaps that the pair could reconcile. The lady was not so far along that passing the child off as legitimate was inconceivable. The young man would have none of it, though.
Formerly as amiable and loving as his father, the actions of the young noble’s wife had aroused in him a fire that would be difficult to quench and he confronted his lady, saying things Lord M--- would not repeat but assured me were harsh, indeed. The two argued for some time, growing louder and making all within earshot uneasy, until her ladyship was unable to take anymore and fled the castle in tears, making her way past several of the household staff. They reported—after the fact, of course—that they had wanted to help but were unsure how, short of restraining the overwrought woman. That was not a step any felt comfortable taking, though, and so they were left to simply watch as the turmoil grew deeper.
The lady’s husband, however, had no such compunctions and gave chase—whether simply to retrieve her or to do otherwise, none but he could know—catching up to her just beyond the castle gates. This man who had never raised a hand in anger to anyone before in his life grabbed his wife’s arm to physically return her to the castle grounds where they could keep their disagreement at least semi-private. As angry as her husband was, however, the woman’s fury was a match. She reacted to his touch by pushing him away with a strength born of rage, knocking him off balance to fall onto the cobblestones where he audibly cracked his skull and was struck instantly dead. Perhaps horrified at her own actions, or perhaps ignorant of them and merely resuming her escape, the anguished woman raced into the streets of D---, reportedly never even looking back.
Lord B---, having followed from the castle at his own, slower pace, emerged from the gates to see his son lying broken and bleeding in the square. The staff who had witnessed the events were agog and rooted in place with shock; he pushed them aside in his anguish and fell to the ground where he futilely cradled his child and wailed inconsolably until dragged bodily away. Utterly broken-hearted, the man died only a few weeks later—never once having set foot out of bed after being put there by his loyal manservant, Henry.
Lord M--- had told the story in quite a detached way—one I suspected was practiced from many retellings, despite his professed reluctance to relate it to me. One item was missing, however.
“And what became of the young lady?” I inquired.
“Dead.” He said flatly. “Found along the seashore two days after her husband’s passing. Hurled herself from an outcropping, we suspected.”
I remarked that it was a true tragedy.
“Yes,” he agreed, still in that seemingly-uncaring manner he had.
I asked then how Lord M--- had come to his title so long after the death of the previous lord. He explained that he had become like a second son to Lord B--- and that, while he had never been added to the man’s will, his solicitors had successfully argued that with the death of his son there was no one closer to Lord B--- in the world. With this in mind, he would of course have wanted his estate to go to his nephew. The family was not a small one, however, and there were others who could make legal and compelling cases for the estate, hence the lengthy process of confirming Lord M---’s inheritance.
The time, by then, had grown relatively late in relation to the “scheduled haunting” and I asked my host if I might take my leave to see the ghost for myself. Lord M--- became animated at the prospect of my beginning work, though he did not wish to join me. He assured me that the run of the castle and grounds were mine and that his staff had been given instructions to comply with my slightest request. I thanked him for this and, guided by Henry, retreated to my room in order to retrieve some equipment and supplies, before making my way back out to the front gates of the castle.
It was not long after nine o’clock and with a little time to spare, I walked the perimeter of the area and, with the aid of my flashlight, paid minute attention to every last detail of the square, the gates, the walls surrounding the manor grounds and so forth. Satisfied that, beyond the dried blood I’d spotted earlier, there was nothing out of the ordinary, I staked out a likely spot for myself near the gates that would afford me a good angle from which to view both the castle gates and any point in the square.
It was now nearly ten and I was running out of time. I quickly, but accurately, marked out in chalk a pentacle on the cobblestones, exactly fourteen feet in diameter. Then, removing from my satchel a small jar of a certain kind of water, I used my forefinger to mark within the chalk lines a second pentacle, as well as the Second Sign of the Saaamaaa Ritual, as detailed in the Sigsand MS. I was not unduly worried as to the danger presented by the haunt I expected to encounter, as the information I’d been given lead me to believe it was likely harmless, and so had not brought the bulk of my gear. Neither, however, did I intend to meet the thing defenseless.
My sanctuary prepared, I settled down within the space I’d created and drew from my bag my revolver and my camera; the pistol went into my coat pocket for easy access and the camera I inspected to ensure it was in order. Being thus prepared, I checked my watch and saw that the “show” was due to start at any moment. And trust me, gentlemen, I was not disappointed!
At precisely 10:15 p.m., I was no longer alone. Over the cluster of cobbles I’ve made note of, there materialized the image of a stately, though disheveled, man. I had picked a good spot for my post and, in the middle of my protective barrier, I was no more than perhaps eighteen or twenty feet from the old gentleman, allowing me to study him quite well. He was elderly, with a neatly-trimmed but luxurious beard and tiny spectacles that sat upon his nose, wearing a nightshirt covered in dark stains and an expression of shock and grief. He had been in a kneeling position when he’d “arrived” and it did appear that his arms were held in such a way as to cradle something, but there was nothing to be seen. I should note that he did not “fade in” or gradually appear from nothing as is the norm in many “ghost stories” and folklore; no, I had been alone… and then I was not! I blinked my eyes and in the intervening time between open and closed—there he appeared.
The tableau remained for a moment or two—the Lord B--- in his place and I, fascinated, in mine—and then the specter began to rock back and forth on his knees, still cradling his invisible burden. It was rather uncomfortable to behold and, despite my familiarity with the unusual, I could feel the beginnings of “the creep” coming upon me. I was not quite there yet, though, and it occurred to me: where was the infamous screaming that so troubled the current master of this place?
Just as the thought formed in my brain, so, too, did it form in the ethereal throat of Lord B---. It came without warning—a long, torturously drawn-out sound that was filled with an excruciating mixture of raw, animal pain and mortal grief. Though I should have expected it, the sound startled me; it came on so suddenly, and was so loud, that I couldn’t prepare myself. Indeed, it was loud enough that I feared for the health of my eardrums. I clapped hands over my ears but, as I’d been warned, it was useless; I might as well have done nothing and, fearful of leaving whatever protection my barrier afforded me, I could only wait and suffer as the haunt screamed its own pain. This lasted until 11:23 p.m., when the ghost blinked out of existence, exactly as it had appeared. In that time, owing to my torment, I was able to do nothing save wait patiently and I regretted not having at least snapped a few photos.
I waited a few moments more, my ears still ringing abhorrently, until I judged it safe enough to leave my pentacles. In the slightly more than an hour it had spent in this world, the ghost of Lord B--- had not even spared a glance for me and it has been my experience that aggressive spirits will at least try to breach m
y barriers if they have any desire for malevolence. Thus, I was left with the conclusion that the haunting was only dangerous to one’s hearing.
I inspected the spot Lord B--- had appeared and, as I suspected, there were, indeed, fresh speckles of blood coloring the stones. Even with my experience in these matters, I found it strange that such physical evidence had been left by a spiritual creature. Was the strength of its emotion so strong as to conjure actual remnants of the past? With much to consider, I gathered my equipment and returned to the castle, bound for bed and many hours’ contemplation.
The next morning, at breakfast, I detailed to Lord M--- what I had seen. He listened politely, though it was obviously nothing new to him and then asked, rather eagerly, what I could do to remedy the situation.
“I’m not sure there is anything I can do,” I replied, quite honestly. Lord M--- did not like this from his expression, but he didn’t interrupt as I continued. “Such apparitions appear because something in this world that they cannot resolve troubles them. It’s not difficult to imagine what that could be, but with both Lord B---‘s son dead and the agent of that death passed on, regardless of whether that agency was intentional, I’m rather perplexed. I’m also puzzled that the spirit’s first appearance occurred so long after its death. That is extraordinarily unusual all to itself.”
I ceased my conjecture and kept my thoughts once again to myself, pondering the situation as I sipped coffee. For a few moments, Lord M--- pretended to do the same, but it was clear he was growing impatient at my continued silence. Finally, I said, “There may be no easy resolution, but I’m far from licked,” at which he was visibly relieved.
He asked, “What is our next step?”
I answered his question with one of my own. “Have there been any changes made around here, recently?” But Lord M--- did not understand the question.
I tried again. “Perhaps significant work done on the castle, for example? Spirits are sometimes disturbed by changes to their familiar locales.”
“No, nothing,” he said. “The only things changed since the unpleasantness that started this whole muddle is my assuming the title and ownership of the place and the appearance of the ghost itself.”
“I see. And when, can you tell me, did Lord B--- begin appearing, exactly?”
Lord M--- replied that he was unsure; it seemed quite remarkable to me that he would not recall so momentous and disturbing an event. Just then, my host’s butler appeared to refill our coffee cups and I took the opportunity to ask him. “Henry, perhaps you recall: when did the apparition of Lord B--- first begin haunting the gates?”
“It was the 21st of May, sir. I remember distinctly because it was both the first church-going day of the young master’s lordship, as well as being the day after the title had become official.”
Lord M--- scoffed and waved a hand dismissively. “That doesn’t sound right to me. I’m sure it was some time before that. Yes, I believe it was early April, in fact.”
In response, Henry bowed low while, impressively, keeping the coffee pot perfectly level, and said, “Of course, sir. I’m sure you’re quite right. This old memory of mine is not what it once was.”
The exchange was curious, as you can well imagine.
I spent the remainder of the day deep in thought as well as in consultation with some of the materials I had brought with me. By dinnertime, I had some ideas I was eager to put into action and immediately after eating, I retired to my room for a little sleep in anticipation of the coming night’s events.
An hour before the appointed time, I was back out in the town square. A few of the townspeople had evidently heard of my coming and of my investigation the previous evening, and gathered around the edge of the square to watch whatever I had planned. I dare say they must have been quite disappointed, however, as I merely set up my camera then shooed them away, asking them to please not return on this or any other night until told otherwise. As I’ve said, I was quite convinced that the spirit of Lord B--- was harmless, but all the same, I did not need an audience for my work.
I took up my previous spot by the gates, forgoing the elaborate rituals of the night before, and waited. Once again at the exact time indicated, the former lord of D--- burst into existence. Even expecting its arrival, I could not help but gasp at the suddenness. I have seen much of the supernatural, and my nerve would probably hold out longer than most men’s, but still I am only human and possess the instincts inherent to our race. As such, a touch of “the creep” entered my soul, but I ignored it as best I could.
I snapped off several photographs, glad for a chance to do so, just as the hideous keening began. I had steeled myself for this and, despite the experience gained on our previous encounter, I had stuffed my ears with some small pieces of fabric; it was no use, however, and so I resigned myself to aural agony.
I approached the specter, slowly so as not to startle it as it had me. It gleamed very faintly in the darkness, a light of a color I have no name for, but very pale, and as my flashlight passed across it, I could just barely see through the figure. The whole effect was fascinating and, was it not for that damnable wailing, I’d have gladly taken time to study it closely.
That was not my purpose, though, and so I set about trying to make contact. I at first spoke gently to the grieving creature with no response, then tried matching its volume, also to no avail. I next tried to get its attention with my flashlight, even going so far as to attempt Morse code with bursts of light. And can you guess the result? Yes, nothing at all!
As I said, I would have dearly loved to study this phenomenon—I’ve never found any spirit so docile, relatively speaking—and while I couldn’t do so in depth, I decided to take a chance on one quick experiment that might provide both edification and a means of communicating. I took a deep breath… and touched my hand to its shoulder.
The effect was immediate, but it was not on Lord B---. My hand passed through the gleaming body as if through plain air and in that second, a chill like nothing I’ve ever felt on this Earth grasped me and would not let go. I naturally pulled back and clasped the hand to my chest with my spare; the feel of one on the other was like ice. The pain it caused was equal to that of the noise that still assailed my senses and yet I knew it was not intentional, for Lord B--- still had not even acknowledged my existence.
Retreating to where my camera sat on its stand, I snapped a few more pictures while contemplating and doing my best to regain feeling in my chilled extremity. After a time—one hour and eight minutes, precisely, as before—Lord B--- also retreated, blinking back to where ever it is that restless spirits go. I returned to my chambers and, eventually, found an uneasy sleep, despite the continued ache in my limb.
The next day, I awoke to find that the cold had left my hand, for which I was very glad; I had feared I would never feel warm again. Encouraged by this, I forewent breakfast and instead spent the morning wandering the castle, attempting to elicit information from the household staff, seeking some clue that might crack the case. I had been told that they’d been instructed to comply with my any request, but it seemed that this did not extend to providing me data on those whom they served. The general response to my questions about the family, the current and previous lords and the story I’d been told by Lord M--- was that it was not their place to say. I could not blame them, for their livelihood, and perhaps more, was at stake. I did note, however, that most of the staff I met were as aged as those I was familiar with. I wondered what it could mean.
Finally, in the last wing of the house I’d yet to explore, I came upon a lone scullery maid who seemed as if she might well be older than even the house she endeavored to keep clean. I greeted her and she seemed friendly enough, though her cracking voice and glacial movements illustrated both her age and the pains that apparently wracked her body. I offered to help her stand and asked if she’d like to rest for a time in one of the chairs that lined the hallway, but she waved off me off.
“Very well. I respect y
our dedication, good lady,” I said, and was rewarded with a gap-toothed grin. “Your employer must be very kind to earn such loyalty.”
She cackled a bit in a way that reminded me of some sort of storybook witch and shook her head as she scrubbed a bit of grime from the floor. “Oh, he treats me just fine, he does. All of us’n’re kept well enough. But then ag’in, we en’t family, is we?” And then her laughter resumed, only it now contained an added tone of bitterness. I asked what she meant, but the crone would say no more. Later, when I described her to Henry, he said it could only be Annabelle and that she had been the former lady of the house’s personal maid. I said nothing to Henry, but that rang a bell and I fitted this new piece into the puzzle.
After a time I gave up my futile quest and returned to my chamber. I spent a little time developing the photos I’d taken, but was unsurprised to find that the lens had captured nothing. I would have liked evidence of such a close encounter with a haunt, but such is the way of things. Since that and my previous experiment with the ghost of Lord B--- had failed, I’d no further ideas on how to bridge the gap between us. I determined that I would need supernatural assistance to deal with a supernatural dilemma.
It took most of the remaining daylight hours, but I found within the pages of my moldy, battered copy of the collected Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan an invocation for speaking directly with the dead. After further study, I determined that part of it was actually meant to summon the spirit one wished to converse with but, lacking knowledge enough to appropriately rewrite the spell for my next encounter with Lord B---, I committed the entire sequence to memory verbatim.
The Castle-Town Tragedy and Other Tales of Carnacki, the Ghost-finder Page 2
