by william Todd
Dead of Night
Tales of the supernatural and the macabre W R Todd
Table of Contents
Whitaker House Curse 3
I’m Still Alive 46
Jack 102
The Thing in the Shadows 121
Bumps in the Night 218
It’s Just Johnny 230
The Whitaker House Curse
1
December 23, 1902: the last entry in the diary of Jules Croft I must confess that for someone who is about to die, writing in my diary is a most odd notion. However, since there is no form of self-defense, no diminutive space on earth in which I can hide that will keep me from this terrible fate, I must do what comes naturally—I must write.
Being a man of middle age and a widower of nearly six years, writing gives me a chance to converse with my beloved Joan. She never answers me, of course, but I know the spirit of my dearest reads what I write, nonetheless. It comforts me to know that, and I must do what comforts my soul. These few words will be my last comfort—in this life and the next.
It is almost midnight. The witching hour. The winds howl outside my home. Their coldness has breached the window I now sit by; they betray the one who is, no doubt, waiting anxiously in the eldritch comfort of the shadows outside, counting down the minutes to my doom. At the appropriate time he will enter and begin to search the rooms, one by one, until he has found the only one occupied. That room is my room, and the Devil himself will be here to collect on a debt.
There is great debate in theological circles as to what the Devil looks like. Can he take the shape of a mere human, or is he the cloven hooved monstrosity portrayed in so many paintings and pictures? I have seen both diabolical manifestations of that most fallen of angels. And even at this very moment, as I hear the deliberate, hollow clapping on the cobblestone in the street below my window, I know which form he takes this night.
The intruder is not far off. He is eager to take what is his, so I must hurry to put to paper the events that precipitated this dreadful event:
This strange story began one year ago this very night. I had only been living in my current home a month, having decided that a change in scenery of a new home in a new village would help keep my thoughts away from how lonely I’d become since my wife’s passing.
As I strode down the oak-lined avenue at the edge of the village proper, which I did daily to take in the crisp air and hopefully become acquainted with my new neighbors, I occasioned a peek at the dreary Whitaker House. It was a long neglected and empty manor house from which I most times shaded my eyes, partly because of its fall into ill repair, but mostly because it was a large, forbidding structure that looked more akin to a mausoleum than a home. I noticed on this brief glance that the double doors into the great house were ajar.
I stood momentarily, pondering the notion that the manor had at last fallen into someone’s hands. I must admit, though, that the house looked as uninviting as ever it had, as the snow that would later blanket the drive and clothe the trees now stood suspended in gray blankets over it.
There were busy noises coming from within, so I crossed the cobblestone lane, passed the rusty, iron gates, and walked up the immense stairs to greet a fellow newcomer to the village.
My ears had not betrayed me. I looked in on busy workmen throughout, painting, washing, sweeping, and taking measurements of this thing and that. I asked one of the workers nearest the doorway if he was privy to the owner’s whereabouts. He only shook his head in the negative and continued his sweeping.
Just then, a surprise came from around the corner of the door. I assumed by the robe he was wearing that it was one of the monks of Sutherland Abbey, the only religious order for miles, which one could get to straightway by traversing the moor at the back of the Whitaker House property.
A bright smile emerged from under his flowing, red beard. “Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Croft. Did I frighten you?” he inquired with a thick Scottish lilt.
I was a bit taken aback by the abrupt appearance of the bear of a man but said, “Not at all, my dear friar. I must ask, though, how you knew who I am. I don’t recall having met you previously.”
The large Scotsman chuckled. “Chin wagging of newcomers to the village spread quicker than butter in July—that and the fact that I know every face in the village, except for yours and our new tenant. It led me to the assumption that you, good sir, were the Mr. Croft I’ve been hearing about.”
“Couldn’t I have been the new owner of Whitaker House?” He lost his hand in his beard as he scratched out a thought. “You could have been, but then you wouldn’t have asked that worker, there, of the owner’s whereabouts.”
My face became flushed and I smiled. “I didn’t know you had heard that.” “There’s something to be said for honesty, he said, passing along a wry grin of his own. “I could have kept that secret and let you relish my astounding psychic prowess.”
I bowed in mock humility. “I surrender to your abilities, nonetheless.”
We shook hands, and he introduced himself as Brother Geoffrey. Afterwards, I looked beyond his broad shoulders and said, “I hope the new owner doesn’t mind a stranger stopping by to offer a ‘hello’.”
The burly monk motioned for me to enter fully into the confines of the house. “Am I to assume, then, that you haven’t received an invitation?”
“Invitation? No.” “Well, that is why I’m here—to thank the good master of the house for the invitation to dinner and wish him wellneeded good tidings. Ah, but matters seem to have him elsewhere, at the moment, so I’ve been admiring the renovations.”
Of course, I had never seen the manor but from the outside, so I asked if the friar could take me on a tour, as we waited for the new owner to show.
Brother Geoffrey took me past the workers to a portion of the house that had been restored already or needed no work for its splendor to shine through. The banquet hall delighted me particularly with its large mullioned windows with colorful, quarrel-pane lattices, and intricate moldings. Many portraits of regally-attired ladies and gentlemen, some still half concealed by white dust covers graced the spaces between the floor-to-ceiling windows. A large yet-to-be-adorned Christmas tree stood in the far corner, next to an immense hearth.
The dwelling looked much more inviting within than its exterior would indicate. From there we went into a dark-paneled library, whose shelves were being cleaned and restocked with numerous volumes—law books and the such, mostly, from what my quick glances could make out. At the far end, next to a small fireplace, whose crackling fire brought some much needed warmth to the room, was a low, arched doorway.
It seemed from the beginning of our tour that Brother Geoffrey purposefully led me to where we now stood.
“Do you know the history of this house?” he inquired. “Just what little I’ve been given since my arrival,” I replied. “I know this place has a dark past—devil worship, black Masses, nefarious things of that sort. But the true facts surrounding it have been lost, I fear.”
The friar smiled at me once more, but it was not a smile of favor. It was a smile of mischief. “Follow me below, and I will relay the story of this house’s evil past.”
With a bit of reluctance but equal curiosity, I followed close behind, as we made our way down a narrow, graystoned stairway into a sunken study. The room to which he led me was small yet inviting. It had an small but flamboyantly carved chimneypiece, mahogany paneling with extraordinary etchings, a dusty, stained, dark marble floor, and one tiny stain-glassed window, which gave the room its only light besides what little filtered down from the library above.
“Do you know what this room is?” he queried with an odd tone in his voice.
“Can’t say that I have any idea whatsoever,” I replie
d as I gave the room a more studious eye. The friar pulled on his luxurious beard as he said, “Then whatever gossip that has made its way to you must have been a corruption, for any good story of the house would not have neglected the happenings in this room.”
“Please tell me, then. I am all ears.” “As I recall,” the friar started, “the house was built by Sir Montrose Whitaker, Earl of Aylesworth, in the 1400’s. He gained his wealth and power by making a pact with Lucifer himself, for Sir Whitaker was not the most capable of men, physically or mentally. During an uprising in which he had taken part, he was thrust through by a Scottish claymore and was mortally wounded. As he lay dying, the Devil came to collect his recompense for the pact. Sir Whitaker pleaded for more time. The Devil healed him and gave him six days to get his affairs in order, at which time he would return.
“Now I must say at this point in the story that Sir Whitaker was married to a fine, Christian woman. She was beautiful, loyal to her husband, and possessed a cunning not often seen in the fairer sex. Sir Whitaker reluctantly imparted the sad details to his wife of the pact made many years prior, and the Prince of Darkness himself would be back soon to take his soul.
“After six days, the Devil returned to the very spot on which we stand to take what was his. Sir Whitaker and his wife pleaded unceasingly for mercy.”
“The Devil said, ‘I must have recompense for our barter’.”
“The wife replied, ‘Anything but his soul’.”
“The Devil, being of the most evil cunning, then said, ‘There is one thing I will take that is not his soul’.”
“She said, ‘Whatever it is, it is yours’.”
“’Sign this parchment first so we are bound that what I want—that is not his soul—is rightfully mine’.” “Sir Whitaker and his wife both signed a large, worn parchment that was written in a language neither could decipher. Since it wasn’t his soul the Devil now wanted, they assumed they could confront whatever Beelzebub sought without fear of Sir Whitaker spending eternity in hell.”
My eyes were as large as a jack-o-lantern’s, and my mouth stood agape. “What, what did that wily serpent want?”
The friar smiled underneath his red covering. “He wanted five pounds of flesh.”
“There is no way a mortal could deliver such a ware without giving up the ghost.” “Precisely,” said the friar. “But the woman, being sly herself asked, ‘Does handing over what you now want nullify all previous deals?’ ”
“‘ Absolutely,’ the Devil said. ‘Give me what I want now, and all other previous barters are voided. It says as much in the document you signed.’ ”
“‘Very well,’ said the wife.” “But as the Devil was about to exact his payment, the wife then said, ‘There is no mention in that document we signed about blood being part of the payment, correct?’ ”
“‘That is true,’ the Devil replied perplexed. “She then smiled and said, ‘Then five pounds of flesh you may have. However if but one drop of blood is spilled, the contract we signed is no longer valid.’ ”
I gasped at the woman’s quick thinking. Brother Geoffrey continued, “Well, having been outwitted by Sir Whitaker’s wife, the wily serpent went on his way empty handed.”
I was astonished at the story. “Certainly, that tale was never relayed to me.”
“I would expect not. Those details have been lost over the years. But the story is not over.”
“What else could there be?” “Eventually, Sir Whitaker’s evil covenant was found out. A housekeeper, given over to the sin of gossip, had overheard the entire encounter between the couple and the Archenemy. Because she had freed him from the pact, Lady Whitaker was set free, but Sir Whitaker was burned at the stake in the village square. Consumption took Lady Whitaker only a few years later, and the house, though passed on several times, has not had a stable occupant since that time.”
“What had made all the previous owners leave?” “They say that Lucifer himself comes back to trick the owners into giving up their souls as recompense for being outwitted by Lady Whitaker.”
“Do you believe such a fantastical story?” I inquired. He laughed a great belly laugh. “Of course I do! I’ve seen the handiwork of the Devil personally, so I am inclined to believe in its authenticity. Not to mention that this is all written down in a volume at the monastery.”
“I’m not one to pass judgement on the supernatural— I acquiesce to your judgement on these things—but to me it sounds a bit far-fetched.”
The friar gave me a sullen look and replied, “It is possible that the particulars may have been…exaggerated, but know this: it is verifiable that six times from that time to this, within one year of this place’s occupancy, someone within the walls of this house or closely related to its owner has been found dead. As a religious man it is my duty, then, to warn the new owner of this house’s dreadful curse.”
I do not know if the eerie story had sobered my conscience after a delay, or if it was the look of utter confidence of the story’s authenticity that radiated from the friar’s bright blue eyes that made me believe. But with little doubt, I finally concluded that the ill events had actually transpired.
It was then that I no longer felt comfortable in the old home’s embrace.
Suddenly, there was an echoing click at the door at the top of the stairs.
I said, “I am willing to bet that is the master of the house finally arrived.” Just as I said those words, a raven-haired gentleman, perhaps a few years past the age of thirty, with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard, appeared at the top of the staircase. A cane with an ornately carved handle was clasped in his right hand, and he used it to help steady himself as he descended.
“Hello, good sir,” said Brother Geoffrey cheerfully, seeming to brush aside the very morbid conversation that had just taken place.
The man smiled in return and bowed slightly. When he spoke, the words issued slowly from his mouth with a dialect I have never before heard. “Hello. I apologize for my absence. The house is quite large, and I don’t get around as well as I once did. I found myself at the end of the south wing when word was sent that company had arrived.”
His voice mesmerized me. It sounded not unlike the lower notes on a great calliaphone—melodious, yet it had a sense of immense power. And his deep eyes pierced me when he turned and greeted me with the same slight bow he just given to Brother Geoffrey.
I said, “I am Jules Croft and this is Brother Geoffrey from the monastery. I hope you don’t think us too forward, but the good friar took me on a tour of your beautiful home, since I am new to the village and haven’t had the opportunity to know the place but from the outside.”
He waved off the statement with a sweep of his free hand. “I have no ill of that, as I must say I was doing much the same. It will be some time, I fear, before I’ve seen the whole place, myself.”
The burly Scotsman interjected, “I have come at your request, good sir, and I must confess, a dinner is a fine way to christen new life back into this most ancient of homes.”
“I am glad you’ve accepted my invitation.” He then turned to me. “And you, Mr. Croft, are here for the dinner, as well?”
“I apologize, but I knew of no dinner or invitation to such. I was just out strolling the avenue and saw your worker bees turning this tired old place to honey.”
“Please, stay and dine with us. I would feel much at ease knowing that there was at least one more person in my company that knows as little of this quaint corner of earth as I do.”
I nodded and said, “I’d love to…I don’t believe I caught your name.” His face became flush with embarrassment. And I must confess that, looking back, its redness seemed uncannily natural on him.
“Please forgive my ill manners. My name is Victor. Victor Strigoi.”
“Where is your country of birth, if I may be so forward?”
“I am from Carpathia.” Brother Geoffrey, ever pulling at his whiskers, said, “I have done some missionary work in that pa
rt of the world— Galacia and the area around. Where, exactly, did you live? Maybe I have been there.”
Mr. Strigoi only frowned and said, “It is a small village. I am quite sure you have never heard of it.” Though he didn’t inquire any farther, I could tell at the time that there was something quite sobering that Brother Geoffrey was pondering silently. By the tension visible on the only skin not hidden by whiskers, I knew that at some point this topic would be revisited.
After an awkward moment of silence, Mr. Strigoi offered, “Others will be arriving soon. May I ask that we go above and await their arrival? I would hate for others to suffer the same impoliteness that I have shown you.”
We waited for our host to ascend the steps before we marched up behind him. During that brief interval I whispered to the friar, “When will you tell him of the house’s curse?”
“The time is not yet right,” he rebutted softly. “He has put much into this dinner, and I will let it play out before warning him. I don’t have to tell you that once I have given caution that is all I can do. The choice will be his to make whether he stays or goes.”
I shuddered as we walked up the staircase back to the library above. “If what you say is indeed true, and this house is cursed, as it truly seems, I pray that he heeds your warning.”
“I am praying the very same thing, even as we now speak.”
2
Once at the top of the stairs, Mr. Strigoi motioned to the library entrance door. “Please, can I offer you a glass of wine while we wait for our other guests?”
Brother Geoffrey smiled behind his whiskered mask and his eyes lit. “Never let it be said that a monk willingly passed up a warming sip of wine, especially on a day as raw as this.”
I nodding obligingly, as well, and our host went to an empty bookshelf next to the entrance where, oddly enough, a bottle of wine had been sitting along with two glasses.
“Two woodcarvers had done a remarkable restoration to the mantelpiece here in the library,” he began to explain, as he poured one then the other glass with the deep, red liquid, “and I had offered the wine to them. However, when I returned with the wine and glasses, they had disappeared.”
