The Macabre Megapack: 25 Lost Tales from the Golden Age

by John Galt

  “‘Where art thou, fiend, that thou hast charmed me thus and left me in darkness?’

  “‘Ha, ha, ha! Don Rolando, dost thou find thyself in darkness?’ said the dwarf, speaking from the self-same spot where Don Rolando has last seen him.

  “‘Art thou here, demon? Who hath extinguished the lights?’

  “‘No lights are extinguished, Don Rolando. The darkness is in thine own vision. Thou art stone blind.’

  “‘Thou liest. Ho, lights, lights, knaves! bring lights!’

  “‘Thou mayest call for lights ‘till they rival in brightness the sun, and thou shalt not see their brilliancy.’

  “‘Fiend, hast thou done this?’

  “‘With a single glance of my eye. I have given thee but the proof thou didst seek. Look upon me once more.’

  “‘I see thee not.’

  “‘Be patient and I will restore thy vision.’ The demon then placed a finger upon each eyelid of Don Rolando, and pressing upon them asked him if he saw two golden rings.

  “‘I do,’ answered Don Rolando.

  “‘Fix thy inward gaze upon them as steadily as but now you fixed your external gaze upon my eye.’

  “‘Don Rolando with an effort did so and by degrees the golden rings enlarged until he seemed to be in a universe of roseate light. The dwarf then removed his fingers and opened his eyes. All around him then seemed an atmosphere of pale light but no object was visible. Gradually the light assumed a delicate blue shade, and then a green color, and seemed to gather itself into a circle opposite to him. This circle gradually lessened in size and increased in brilliancy. He kept his eyes steadily upon it as if by a supernatural energy, until it diminished to a small orb. That orb was the dwarf’s eye, whom he now beheld standing in his presence as before.

  “‘It is enough! Thou shalt make use of thy power,’ said Don Rolando. ‘She is on yonder couch.’

  “‘The terms are the souls of the children she may bring thee,’ said the dwarf, without moving.

  “Don Rolando started. He saw that his visitor was resolute. ‘It is but a contingency at the best,’ thought he. ‘I consent,’ he said hesitatingly.

  “‘Lay thy thumb and forefinger upon my eyelid and it shall be thy oath,’ said the demon.

  “Don Rolando did so. The dwarf then placed himself at the foot of the couch in shadow, so that his bright green eye alone was visible from it. It instantly arrested the maiden’s eyes and her glance was fascinated. In a few moments her vision was forever darkened.

  “The demon departed as suddenly as he had appeared, and Don Rolando stood by the couch of the blind maiden. He watched her motions. Her gaze was vacant and her hands moved like one who is in the dark.

  “‘Alas, alas! whither am I borne? To what fate am I doomed? A moment since all was bright and gorgeous, and now all is dark as midnight. Ay de mi! Hapless vestal!’

  “‘Nay, sweet lady,’ said Don Rolando, in a gentle tone, for though his visage was hideous his voice was soft and harmonious; ‘you are brought from the damp cells of a cloister to the halls of luxury and affluence—to a noble castle that waits to hail you as its mistress, and to a true knight’s home, who is ready to lay his heart and honor at your feet.’

  “Thus and in like manner spoke Don Rolando. His soothing voice and tender speech at length won her ear, and she listened to him with pleasure. But the story of his wooing and nuptials, and of her submission to her blindness, for which she could not account, and which, be it mentioned here, did nothing to mar her beauty, must be passed over. Years rolled by and Don Rolando had become the father of seven beautiful daughters, every one of whom had been born on a Christmas eve. He loved his lovely and sightless wife each succeeding year more and more. Blessings seemed to flow in upon him on every side. The only desire he now had, to complete his happiness, was for a son, that he might have him heir to his name and vast estates. But this wish he was never destined to see fulfilled.

  “At length his eldest daughter reached her eighteenth year, and a neighboring noble who had won her heart was to lead her to the altar on her birthday eve. The bridal party were assembled, the rites were performed, and the hours of festivity flew on with joy and hope. The bride, who was scarcely less lovely than Henride’s, was in the midst of a waltz, when the castle clock tolled twelve. Ere the last stroke had ceased vibrating upon the ears of the banqueters, there entered the hall a tall dark stranger, in a green velvet dress richly studded with emeralds. In his bonnet was a sable plume fastened by an emerald that glowed like fire, and at his belt was a hunting horn. His aspect was noble and his face intellectual. His entrance drew nearly all eyes upon him. But there was something about him that made Don Rolando’s heart shrink with ominous foreboding. He strode across the hall to where Don Rolando was seated, and said in a low tone—

  “‘Don Rolando, I have come for thy daughter.’

  “Don Rolando started back and looked him in the face for an instant, and then with a shriek fell backward into the arms of his attendants.

  “Leaving him, the stranger then approached the bride as she yet circled in the waltz, for while in its giddy mazes she had not yet noticed his entrance. He stood near her and sought to catch her eye. He succeeded! Instantly she stopped as if paralyzed, and then, without turning her glance aside from his steady gaze, approached him. He receded from her as she did so, still keeping upon her his riveted gaze, which seemed to fascinate her like a serpent’s, for as he moved across the hall she followed him as if irresistibly drawn solely by the power of his eye. He now took his way through the hall in the direction of the outer gate of the castle, steadily looking back towards her over his shoulder, while like a hound she continued to follow, step for step. All arrayed in her bridal robes and sparkling with jewels, with a face like death’s and eyes supernaturally dilated, she went on after him, looking neither to the right nor to the left. Poor maiden—without once removing his glance from her terrified eyes, the stranger passed out into the hall, descended the marble steps to the court below and crossed the court to the outer gate; and through hall, corridor, and courtyard, the charmed bride followed him, keeping the same distance behind until she disappeared after him through the portal. Of the guests all were at first paralyzed, and followed them at a distance, the boldest, nor even the bridegroom himself, having power to attempt her rescue. Slowly behind her they followed, with silent amazement and horror, ‘till the ill-fated bride had disappeared through the gate, when the spell that seemed to have bound all present was broken.

  “‘Ho! cavaliers and gentlemen! To the rescue!’ was the universal cry.

  “Ere they reached the gate they heard the receding footsteps of the horseman and the full cry of hounds as if a huntsman was scouring the country at the head of his pack. The sounds soon died away in a distant glen, and from that night forward nothing was ever heard of the bride that had been so strangely charmed away.

  “The next day Don Rolando, who alone could unravel this mystery, sent ten thousand golden pistoles to the convent from whence he had abducted his wife nineteen years before, praying that masses might be nightly offered for his daughter’s soul.

  “Two years elapsed, and time, which heals all things, had in some degree thrown over this event its oblivious veil, when the second daughter, not less lovely than the eldest, attained her eighteenth year, and on her birth-night was led to the altar by a noble Arragonese cavalier. As before it was night of mirth and festivity. Alas, for it! When the clock struck twelve, the bride was just entering her bridal chamber. On the threshold she looked back to receive Don Rolando’s blessing when her eye encountered the fixed glance of the swart stranger. With a shudder she turned back from the very threshold of the bridal chamber and followed him at a short distance behind, through hall, court and corridor, to the outer gate of the castle. Again were heard, a moment afterwards, the huntsman and his hounds coursing up the glen, again the cavaliers present, ‘till now spellbound, rushed forth to the rescue. But never from that time forward was
there intelligence of the fate of the second daughter of Don Rolando Osormo.

  “By a strange fatality the bridal night was always on the birthday night, which happened ever on Christmas eve, the anniversary of the night on which Don Rolando committed the sacrilege of abducting the novice.”

  “Doubtless Holy Church had something to do with his terrible punishment in the loss of his daughters,” said Eugene Brissot.

  Don Antonio Baradas smiled coldly and significantly and without replying continued—

  “That these nuptials should be suffered to take place a second and a third time, after such a horrible consummation of them, is no less strange, than that the parties should be so little affected by circumstances that ought to have made a lasting impression on every mind. It would seem that Don Rolando and his friends and his daughter’s wooers, were, one and all afflicted with a judicial blindness. A third, fourth and a fifth bridal took place, with two years interval between each, with precisely the same results—the nightly appearance, at the stroke of twelve, of the dark stranger—the fascination of the bride—her submissive following, and disappearance, with the retiring sound of horse and hounds winding up the glen. What is most remarkable connected with this affair, was, that at each visit of the dark stranger, the sightless mother recovered her vision during the time he was present, but immediately lost it on his departure. At the loss of her fifth daughter she died of a broken heart for her bereavements.

  “At length Don Rolando roused himself at this series of judgments, and resolved to avert the fate of his two remaining daughters, one of whom was sixteen and the other and youngest of all but six years of age. For this purpose he secretly left his castle and his native land, and came hither, as if the wide sea were a wall between justice and the adjudged. He built yonder solitary and gloomy mansion, and defended its portals with iron gates. He consecrated every stone with holy water, and in every threshold sunk a silver cross. The two years elapsed as before, and strange infatuation, he suffered his daughter to be led to the altar on her eighteenth birthday. A wealthy and high-born Creole had wooed and won her. Don Rolando gave his consent, believing the power he dreaded would not reach him here. He wished, too, with a resistless curiosity, to relieve his mind by the trial. He incurred the risk, and sacrificed his daughter!”

  “Did the green stranger appear?” asked every voice.

  “True to the hour and stroke of midnight. The bride followed him from the drawing rooms and across the lawn, and a moment afterwards the sound of horse and horn resounded all along the winding shore ‘till lost in the dark cypress forests to the south. The guests fled from the fatal halls in terror. But none could afterwards tell the tale or describe the scene. A spell seemed to have been laid upon their memories. All was confused and indistinct when they could recall it, but the impression of a supernatural presence there on that night remained uneffaced. From that time the ‘Haunted Villa’ became the scene of mysteries no man could unravel. The morning after this supernatural event, M. Vergniaud, at present our noble host, was surprised at the entrance of Don Rolando leading in his youthful daughter, a beautiful child in her eighth year. To him Don Rolando consigned her, after telling him the strange story you have heard me relate. With him he left keys to coffers of gold in the vaults of his mansion, and then blessing his daughter, took his leave of her forever! He is now, as a rigid and holy monk, doing penance night and day in the monastery which he had so sacrilegiously violated. Where is M. Vergniaud? Methinks I have not seen him present among you.”

  A low groan arrested every ear. A figure lay upon the ground in a kneeling posture—it was M. Vergniaud. He had fainted there at the first sight of the spectacle the Haunted Villa had presented. Ephese had been to him as an own child. He felt that the curse had not departed from her race, and had fallen forward insensible, with a cry of mercy! mercy! for her on his lips. They lifted him up and laid him upon an ottoman. Those who assisted him were scarce more alive than himself. Don Antonio’s tale had filled the soul of everyone that listened to it with horror. Henride Claviere, the bridegroom, stood before Don Antonio like a statue of stone, and all eyes were fixed upon the young Spaniard in silence. They expected something—they knew not what—but something that would harrow their senses and chill their blood. The connection of the fearful tale with the bride was too plain to be mistaken.

  “Let us save her or die with her, good Don Antonio,” cried Eugene Brissot.

  “Hark! it is twelve o’clock!” they cried, in the deep voice of fearful expectation.

  “It is the Cathedral bell! The saints preserve us!” fell from every pallid lip.

  At the last stroke Don Antonio cast aside his silken cloak from his tall figure and stood before them the Green Huntsman—the Swart Stranger of his tale. Without a word he left them, and entering the drawing room from the verandah, crossed it to the door through which Ephese had gone with her bridesmaids. It opened ere he touched it. Passing on he traversed a suite of lighted rooms until he came to the door of the nuptial chamber. Disrobed of her rich bridal attire, Ephese was standing among her bridesmaids in a robe de chambre and cap of snowy white, that made her look, if possible, still more lovely than ever. The door swung open and Don Antonio instantly fixed his eye upon hers and turned to leave the chamber. She clasped her hands together in agony, as if instinctively she knew her fate, and followed him. He did not keep his eyes upon her constantly, but strode forward without looking behind, as if satisfied she followed. Twice she stopped and stood still, wringing her hands supplicatingly. He had only to glance back over his shoulder, at such times, and she came crouching along close to his feet. Thus he led the ill-fated bride into the hall and forth upon the verandah. Here stood Henride—here stood Eugene Brissot and their friends. They beheld him advancing and saw him pass by close to the spot where they stood. They saw—oh, horror! oh, Heavenly pity! they saw too, the poor Ephese following him—now stopping and wringing her snowy hands as he took his eyes from her, now as he turned and fixed them upon hers crouching and moving on mournfully in his fatal footsteps. Yet they could move neither hand nor foot to save her. Henride’s eyes followed his bride with a glassy stare, and the brave Eugene Brissot seemed divested of every vital function and sense save the single sense of horror. Thrice she tried to turn and look upon her husband, but each time his eye arrested the movement of her head and drew her still on after him. From the verandah they traversed the lawn, reached the gate and passed through it. The next moment was heard the galloping of horse, the sound of hounds, and those on the verandah distinctly beheld the Green Huntsman riding like the wind in the direction of the Haunted Villa, bearing before him in his saddle the hapless victim bride. As he rode they saw his form change, (for he seemed to emit a horrid shining light that exhibited him as plainly as noonday to their vision) and assume the form of a hideous dwarf. On rode the demon and his victim, and on followed the pack of black hounds, baying in full cry. All at once the Haunted Villa became illuminated as before, with a red glare through window, portal and crevice, while again the writhing tongue of green flame lapped the air and shed a baleful light a league around.

  The demon with his victim borne before him and followed by his whole sable pack, now turned into the lawn and rode towards the infernal mansion, at the wildest speed. Without pausing they all, rider, victim, horse and hound, dashed through the yawning portal and leaped into the midst of the glowing furnace. Shrieks and yells most piercing and appalling rent the air; the flames were suddenly extinguished, and in an instant darkness and terrible gloom shrouded the spot where a moment before seemed to yawn the sulphurous mouth of hell.

  Such is the legend of the “Haunted Villa;” and such is the penalty of a parent’s crime, which sooner or later Heaven will punish, even to making wicked spirits the instruments of its just vengeance.

  A REVELATION OF A PREVIOUS LIFE, by Nathaniel Parker Willis

  (1843)

  The death of a lady, in a foreign land, leaves me at liberty to narrate the circ
umstances which follow.

  A few words of previous explanation, however.

  I am inclined to believe, from conversations on the subject with many sensible persons, that there are few men who have not had, at different intervals in their lives, sudden emotions, currents of thought, affections of mind and body, which not only were wholly disconnected with the course of life thus interrupted, but seemed to belong to a wholly different being.

  Perhaps I shall somewhere touch the reader’s experience by describing rather minutely, and in the first person, some sensations of this kind not unusual to myself.

  Walking in a crowded street, for example, in perfect health, with every faculty gaily alive, I suddenly lose the sense of neighborhood. I see—I hear—but I feel as if I had become invisible where I stand, and was at the same time present and visible elsewhere. I know everything that passes around me, but I seem disconnected, and (magnetically speaking) unlinked from the human beings near. If spoken to at such a moment, I answer with difficulty. The person who speaks seems to be addressing me from a world to which I no longer belong. At the same time, I have an irresistible inner consciousness of being present in another scene of everyday life—where there are streets and houses and people—where I am looked on without surprise as a familiar object—where I have cares, fears, objects to attain—a different scene altogether, and a different life, from the scene and life of which I was a moment before conscious. I have a dull ache at the back of my eye for the minute or two that this trance lasts, and then, slowly and reluctantly, my absent soul seems creeping back, the magnetic links of conscious neighborhood, one by one, re-attach, and I resume my ordinary life, but with an irrepressible feeling of sadness.

  It is in vain that I try to fix these shadows as they recede. I have struggled a thousand times in vain to particularize and note down what I saw in the strange city to which I was translated. The memory glides from my grasp with preternatural evasiveness.