In the taproom, I was astonished to find that the place was packed nearly wall-to-wall with patrons—so many, in fact, that a number of them were standing as there were simply no more seats to be had. Millard seemed pleased that, for this one night at least, his business was once again thriving, though his worry over so many people placing themselves in a situation of potential danger was still plainly evident. He confided that word of my visit had gotten out around Ixham and many were curious to meet me and learn more about my methods and the investigation. Apparently, I was the most interesting thing to happen in Ixham since the Millards’ haunting—old news by then—and while familiar with a small measure of fame, I was surprised all the same.
Leading me to a position near the bar, Millard called out for quiet, “Just for a moment, if you please.
“All right, folks,” he began. “We appreciate all of you comin’ tonight, same as any other, and I don’t wanna disappoint nobody, so here goes: this is Mister Thomas Carnacki of London.” A brief cheer went up and I nodded slightly in acknowledgement. Millard entreated for quiet once again, all eyes on us, before continuing. “You all know what’s been goin’ on around here and Mr. Carnacki’s gonna try and get to the bottom of it. So—and here’s where I’m askin’ a big favor from you all—nobody get in his way, understood? I can’t have folks hangin’ around during the day or trying to sneak in at night to see what he’s up to or anythin’ like that. And I’m gonna need everyone out of here at the regular closin’ time, if not sooner, all right?” For a moment, sounds of disappointment rumbled through the crowd, but Millard finished with, “Okay, then let’s get some drinkin’ done!” and the crowd’s air of enjoyment returned.
For the remainder of the evening, I was assailed, gently, by any number of tales of strange doings heard or seen or related second, or even third-hand, from the Green House’s many guests. I heard nothing that I’d not already been told by Millard or his household, but I enjoyed the camaraderie and the villagers obviously enjoyed telling their stories to someone new.
Around nine o’clock, I excused myself, pleading weariness after a long day. Millard took the opportunity to clear the place out and I returned to my room. Before long, all was quiet in the house.
As I lay abed, pondering the day’s events, I made a ‘mental map’ of the building and planned out my route for the morrow’s examinations. Weariness soon overcame me, however, and I fell fast asleep.
I awoke once in the night, around 2 o’clock, to what sounded like delicate footsteps out in the hallway, like those of a child or a woman of small stature attempting stealth but falling somewhat short. I got up and sat on the edge of the bed, listening intently but hearing nothing more. Deciding on a quick investigation, I snatched up my flashlight, flicked it on and went out into the hallway. Quietly, I moved along the full length of the corridor, pausing briefly to listen at the door of each room, but neither saw nor heard anything and when I arrived at the door of Lady Dane’s chamber, found that my seals remained unbroken. At this, I could merely shrug and return to bed.
In the morning, I awoke quite well-rested and refreshed despite the late-night interruption and after my morning ablutions and a quick check of the still-sealed room number nine, headed to the kitchen to find Mrs. Millard setting out a huge meal. Over breakfast and coffee with the Millards and Liam, I brought up the noise in the night when Mrs. Willard asked how I had slept.
“I’m not sure now that I heard it, however,” I conceded. “I was told so many stories of the place before bed last night and I’m merely a mortal fellow with an admittedly-active imagination. I saw nothing and heard nothing more when I got up to investigate, so it’s possible my mind was just playing tricks.”
The Millards shared a look and I hoped that I’d not shaken their faith in me. Then Millard asked, “So what about room nine?”
I took a sip of coffee before replying, “Still sealed. I checked it first thing. After breakfast, I plan to investigate it once more. If I don’t find anything there, I will begin a minute examination of every inch of the building.” Millard expressed his understanding and then the conversation turned to other subjects.
When we’d finished, I went back to my room and retrieved my camera, its tripod-mount and a handful of chalk before returning to the sealed room down the hall and breaking off the wax around the door. Upon entering, I found that the sheets of paper I had arranged the day before had been scattered haphazardly across the room, as if by a strong breeze! Careful not to touch anything but the floor, I kneeled down and took a look at both the papers and the areas where they’d been originally placed and where they had ended up, but saw nothing extraordinary. After this, I inspected the seals I’d left on the windows, wardrobe and fireplace and found all intact. The flue—a breeze’s only possible entrance with the windows still sealed—also remained closed, just as I’d left it. I spent the next hour and a half repeating my previous, exhaustive investigation of the room and could come up with no explanation for the shifted paper.
Undaunted, I took up my camera and made several snaps of the room from various different angles before setting the tripod-mounted device directly in front of the fireplace and taking several more shots. I then slid a fresh plate into the camera and left it exactly as it was, for I wanted to take more photographs that night from precisely the same position.
I was absolutely certain that neither the windows nor the door of the room had been breached and though I couldn’t yet understand how, my intuition and logic both told me that the fireplace was the key. With that in mind, I made another inspection of the mantelpiece, the fireplace and the floor around it, literally inch by inch. Still, I could find no clue, and after more than an hour of this, I used the chalk to mark tight outlines of each piece of furniture and the fireplace where they met the floorboards.
With nothing more to do there until nightfall, I exited the room and found Willa Millard standing a short distance off, pretending to engage in some light dusting of a painting. I guessed that she had been waiting there for some time, though she pretended to just notice me as I entered the hallway. I greeted her and in response she asked, “Well, then, Mr. Carnacki?” without bothering to elaborate on the question.
I reported that there had been, at the very least, a stiff breeze through the room sometime in the night, but that I could not as yet determine its origin for the door, windows and fireplace had remained sealed. Mrs. Millard’s shoulders visibly slumped; this was clearly not the answer she’d expected from the ‘expert’ she’d convinced her husband to bring all the way from London. With a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder, I said, “Not to worry. These things take time and I’ll certainly not be defeated by one puzzler.” She favored me with a slight, sad smile before going back about her business, promising to see me later.
The rest of that day was spent walking the grounds of the place, both because I thought it necessary to independently verify the household’s claims that there was nothing unusual happening beyond the walls of Green House and also out of a genuine desire to explore the wondrously-verdant area which had given the building its name. Beyond lush grasses and a host of magnificently-healthy and gloriously-beautiful flowers, fruit-trees and ornamental bushes, I found nothing. Nor did a search of the handful of outbuildings reveal anything, either.
The only thing of note, in fact, was a brief encounter with a small, brown and tan dog of obvious mongrel parentage on the outskirts of the estate’s grounds. As a great lover of dogs, I was delighted to meet the little fellow and by his bright eyes and curious sniffling, I believe the feeling was mutual. He followed me around a bit as I took my walk about the place but when I tried to get him to follow me back to the main building to ask the Millards if he belonged to them and perhaps to find him a treat of some sort, he set his heels in the dirt and wouldn’t budge a step in that direction. In fact, he seemed somewhat distressed by the very idea of it. Conceding that my little friend had determined his own path, I bid him farewell.
&
nbsp; When I later on came across Liam, working to clear some weeds from a section of the yard, I mentioned the dog and he told me, “Oh, sure, that’s Scraps, Mr. Carnacki. Mrs. Brown calls him that owin’ to he’s been comin’ around almost since we opened, looking for handouts. Although, come to think of it, I guess I haven’t really seen him lately. Not for a few weeks, anyway. But you know, dogs will be dogs and they got minds of their own. Nice little chappy, for sure, though.” We chatted for a few minutes more and then I continued on my way.
Just before dark, I went inside and back to my room to dress for dinner. When I returned to the first floor of the house, headed towards the dining room, I was met along the way by James Millard. As we made our way towards the dining area, Millard told me that a friend of his from America had arrived unexpectedly that afternoon, passing through the area on business, and had asked to stay the night. Though eager for a chance to catch up with his friend, Millard had been reluctant to agree to the request and sought my permission.
“He understands the situation?” I asked.
Millard’s brow furrowed and he shook his head very slightly, as if annoyed. “I told ‘im, but he thought I was joking. Still, he’s a good friend; if I ask him to, I’m sure he’ll stay out of your way. And it’s only one night besides.”
It was not my place to decide whom Millard invited into his home and told him so. He made no response and I assumed it was due to pondering his decision.
In the dining room, I was introduced to the newcomer, a Mr. Michael Henry. I was wary of the uncanny timing of his arrival, as an unexpected visit from a long-lost friend during the height of a crisis seemed suspicious to the detective in me, but after chatting with Henry for a few minutes, I found him to be both charming and one of the nicest chaps I’d met in a long time. He was cut from the same cloth as Millard, a man who’d seen his fair share of adventure and had pluck enough to take on whatever life threw his way, and he regaled us with tales of exploits that he and Millard had shared during their time at sea together. Though I still harbored doubts about him, I kept them to myself for I knew that the entertainment was doing the Millards and their employees a world of good and I was glad to see their enjoyment.
There came a point of open conflict with Henry, however, when the circumstances under which I was at the Green House finally arose in conversation and he flat-out refused to believe that I was sincere in both my life’s work and my desire to help the Millards. He insisted that ‘hauntings’ were a lot of ‘hooey’ and seemed utterly baffled by the genuineness of the rest of the party’s belief in the cause of their troubles. When he went so far as to suggest that only some sort of ‘flim-flam man’ would come all the way from London for such nonsense, I bristled and was about to say something I probably would have regretted if not for Willa Millard’s intervention. She shamed Henry for saying such a thing in front of me, insisting that she was a great believer in my abilities and that doubting me was akin to calling her a fool. He quickly apologized to us both, claiming he’d meant no insult. Mrs. Millard accepted his apology, as did I, and that was the end of it as far as the rest of the party was concerned. I, however, was still irritated at Henry’s assertions—even if they had been made carelessly, as he’d professed with his apology—and found myself almost wishing for something out of the ordinary to occur during his visit which might change his mind. And as it happened, something did!
Due to his ‘special guest’s’ presence, Millard had not opened the tavern to the public that night, despite his previous insistence that he couldn’t afford not to, and the eight of us enjoyed a pleasant meal without the Millards or the serving girls having to worry about patrons. Afterwards, Henry suggested a game of cards and he, Millard, Liam and I agreed on a game of whist, with Millard and Henry partnering against Liam and I. Over first beers, and later coffee, we played for a few hours and generally had a good time. This continued until about eleven o’clock, when suddenly a blood-curdling shriek emanated from the directions of the servants’ quarters!
I leapt to my feet and raced towards the sound, my three companions hot on my heels. In the hallway beyond the areas used for storage of kitchen goods and supplies, just outside of the room shared by the Millards’ two youngest employees, I found the serving girls, Lizzy and Claire, along with Mrs. Millard. The girls were dressed for bed and huddled together on the floor, arms wrapped around each other as a drowning man clings to a scrap of wood and sobbing hysterically. Mrs. Millard was trying to calm them down, but had no luck until the girls caught sight of me.
“Oh, Mr. Carnacki!” Lizzy cried, jumping to her feet and wrapping her arms around my middle in a fierce hug. “It was horrible!”
I was surprised and rather embarrassed by this, being unused to such attention and being very aware of the young woman’s state of dress. I caught Henry’s smirk out of the corner of my eye and my cheeks burned all the redder.
Mrs. Millard gently pried the girl from me, murmuring comforting words, as Lizzy babbled out her story. “It was horrible, Mr. Carnacki! We were abed, Claire and me—we sleep on opposite sides of the room, but it’s small, you know? With a little table between the beds—and anyway, we were abed and I was kind of half-asleep and I thought I heard someone calling my name, very quiet and whispery, but I definitely heard it. I thought it was Claire, at first—who else would it be? But I looked over and she was asleep, snoring soundly away.” Here, Claire shot her cohort a dangerous look, but Lizzy pressed on. “Well, it’s true, you were! Anyway, so I thought maybe I’d just dreamed it and rolled over to go back to sleep but when I did, I saw this ghastly-pale face at the window, just leering! Oh and I couldn’t help myself, I just screamed at the top of my lungs!”
Just then the cook, Mrs. Brown, came up the hallway from the opposite direction I’d arrived, wearing a dressing gown and a look of helplessness. She shrugged heavily and said, “I looked, ma’am, but there’s nobody out there as I could see.”
Millard cast me a forlorn look and so I took charge, directing him, Liam and Henry outside with lanterns to check the grounds more thoroughly and make sure there were, indeed, no trespassers to be found. I then asked Mrs. Brown to take Lizzy and Claire into the kitchen and get them a warm drink to ease their nerves, before seeking Mrs. Millard’s permission to inspect the servants’ rooms. After a brief search, I had to concede that there was nothing to find and, moments later, the three men returned and reported the same of the grounds.
As I considered this, and my best course of action, Mrs. Millard announced that Claire and Lizzy would stay the night with her for their safety and that Millard could take one of the free guest rooms. Prompted by this, Liam announced he’d be spending yet another night in the carriage-house and Millard, with a slightly-embarrassed look at his friend Henry, stated that he would join him. Henry simply laughed and said, “When in Rome, gentlemen! Let’s make it three, then.” Even this turn of events hadn’t dulled his amusement, it seemed.
When all four of them then turned their gaze to me, I said, “I suppose I’ll be getting back to work, then.”
I returned to my room to get outfitted for the night’s business and there armed myself with a strong flashlight, several jars of a special pigment of my own manufacture and my revolver—though I didn’t really expect to use it. Nothing I had seen or heard so far had indicated that the phenomena in the place was dangerous other than to the peace of mind of anyone unfamiliar with the supernatural, but I prefer to be prepared for any eventuality all the same. As my camera and associated supplies were already in room nine, I was prepared in short order and headed down the hallway to the center of the weirdness.
I can see you men are thinking, “Why return to the ‘haunted’ room when the most recent development was downstairs?” but you know that I do nothing without good reason. The very first inkling of a theory was beginning to form, but I had no evidence to support it. With the cursory examinations by the three other men and Mrs. Brown revealing nothing outside, I returned to the heart of the
place’s troubles.
Inside the room, I made a brief sweep of the surroundings with my flashlight, ensuring that all was as I had left it, including the seals remaining intact and my camera and tripod in the precise positioning in which I’d left them. Satisfied that nothing had been disturbed, I readied the camera for use and then, with the contents of one of the jars of dyestuff, drew a pentacle about the camera in a circumference of roughly three feet, sealing myself in. I suspected that the effort would be for naught, but I took no chances, remembering the similar circumstances of the “Yellow Finger” case.
The area, and myself, prepared, I switched off my light and in the darkness made several snaps with the camera, the flash mechanism illuminating the area for a fraction of a second each time and giving me a queer sensation of experiencing those moments as a series of photos within my mind. After I’d had done with the camera, I settled down to sit ‘lotus-style’, as Easterners say, within the pentacle and wait. For what, I could not have said, but I had an extraordinary feeling, almost a premonition, that something peculiar was going to happen. And very soon at that.
An hour or more passed in absolute silence. The entire house, it seemed, was enveloped in a vast bubble of darkness and quietude that I fancied would remain unbroken until I took some sort of action and the longer I waited, the more I could feel a change in the energy about the place. It was as if I was not the only thing that didn’t belong and I could sense a sort of hostility permeating the aura of the house, moving in and washing over me like the tide does a lonely, isolated stretch of beach. It was a singular notion, I’ll tell you, though probably not that strange when you take into account that I was in the dark, in utter stillness, in the middle of a room reputed to be haunted. Certainly, it was a situation I’d been in before and I’ve had more than any two or three men’s combined fair share of the supernatural, but I am still just a man at that, and I am only a little more immune to ‘the creep’ than anyone else. In that total, oppressive darkness, I can assure you I felt it quite strongly.
The Castle-Town Tragedy and Other Tales of Carnacki, the Ghost-finder Page 8
