by Otto Penzler
“As I did not know the country well, I did not mean to go far. But although it was an overcast night, with a high north-east wind and an occasional flurry of rain, the moon was up, and, even concealed by clouds as it was, it yet lit the night with a kind of twilight grey—not vivid, like the open moonlight, but good enough to see some distance. On account of this, I prolonged my stroll, and kept walking on and on till I was a considerable way from the village, and in a region as lonely as anywhere in the country. Great trees and shrubs bordered the road, and many feet below was a mountain stream. What with the passion of the wind pouring through the high trees and the shout of the water racing among the boulders, it seemed to me sometimes like the noise of a crowd of people. Sometimes the branches of the trees became so thick that I was walking as if in a black pit, unable to see my hand close to my face. Then, coming out from the tunnel of branches, I would step once more into a grey clearness which opened the road and surrounding country a good way on all sides.
“I suppose it might be some three-quarters of an hour I had been walking when I came to a fork of the road. One branch ran downward, getting almost on a level with the bed of the torrent; the other mounted in a steep hill, and this, after a little idle debating, I decided to follow. After I had climbed for more than half a mile, thinking that if I should happen to lose track of one of the landmarks I should be very badly lost, the path—for it was now no more than that—curved, and I came out on a broad plateau. There, to my astonishment, I saw a house. It was a good-sized house, three storeys high, with a verandah round two sides of it, and from the elevation on which it stood it commanded a far stretch of country.
“There were a few great trees at a little distance from the house, and behind it, a stone’s-throw away, was a clump of bushes. Still, it looked lonely and stark, offering its four sides unprotected to the winds. For all that, I was very glad to see it. ‘It does not matter now,’ I thought, ‘whether I have lost my way or not. The people in the house will set me right.’
“But when I came up to it I found that it was, to all appearance, uninhabited. The shutters were closed on all the windows; there was not a spark of light anywhere. There was something about it, something sinister and barren, that gave me the kind of shiver you have at the door of a room where you know that a dead man lies inside, or if you get thinking hard about dropping over the rail into that black waste of waters out there. This feeling, you know, isn’t altogether unpleasant; you relish all the better your present security. It was the same with me standing before that house. I was not really frightened. I was alone up there, miles from any kind of help, at the mercy of whoever might be lurking behind the shutters of that sullen house; but I felt that by all the chances I was perfectly alone and safe. My sensation of the uncanny was due to the effect on the nerves produced by wild scenery and the unexpected sight of a house in such a very lonely situation. Thus I reasoned, and, instead of following the road farther, I walked over the grass till I came to a stone wall, perhaps two hundred and fifty yards in front of the house, and rested my arms on it, looking forth at the scene.
“On the crests of the hills far away a strange light lingered, like the first touch of dawn in the sky on a rainy morning or the last glimpse of twilight before night comes. Between me and the hills was a wide stretch of open country. On my right hand was an apple orchard, and I observed that a stile had been made in the wall of piled stones to enable the house people to go back and forth.
“Now, after I had been there leaning on the wall some considerable time, I saw a man coming towards me through the orchard. He was walking with a good, free stride, and as he drew nearer I could see that he was a tall, sinewy fellow between twenty-five and thirty, with a shaven face, wearing a slouch hat, a dark woollen shirt, and gaiters. When he reached the stile and began climbing over it I bade him goodnight in neighbourly fashion. He made no reply, but he looked me straight in the face, and the look gave me a qualm. Not that it was an evil face, mind you—it was a handsome, serious face—but it was ravaged by some terrible passion: stealth was on it, ruthlessness, and a deadly resolution, and at the same time such a look as a man driven by some uncontrollable power might throw on surrounding things, asking for comprehension and mercy. It was impossible for me to resent his churlishness, his thoughts were so certainly elsewhere. I doubt if he even saw me.
“He could not have gone by more than a quarter of a minute when I turned to look after him. He had disappeared. The plateau lay bare before me, and it seemed impossible that, even if he had sprinted like an athlete, he could have got inside the house in so little time. But I have always made it a rule to attribute what I cannot understand to natural causes that I have failed to observe. I said to myself that no doubt the man had gone back into the orchard by some other opening in the wall lower down, or there might be some flaw in my vision owing to the uncertain and distorting light.
“But even as I continued to look towards the house, leaning my back now against the wall, I noticed that there were lights springing up in the windows behind the shutters. They were flickering lights, now bright—now dim, and had a ruddy glow like firelight. Before I had looked long I became convinced that it was indeed firelight—the house was on fire. Black smoke began to pour from the roof; the red sparks flew in the wind. Then at a window above the roof of the verandah the shutters were thrown open, and I heard a woman shriek. I ran towards the house as hard as I could, and when I drew near I could see her plainly.
“She was a young woman; her hair fell in disorder over her white nightgown. She stretched out her bare arms, screaming. I saw a man come behind and seize her. But they were caught in a trap. The flames were licking round the windows, and the smoke was killing them. Even now the part of the house where they stood was caving in.
“Appalled by this horrible tragedy which had thus suddenly risen before me, I made my way still nearer the house, thinking that if the two could struggle to the side of the house not bounded by the verandah they might jump, and I might break the fall. I was shouting this at them; I was right up close to the fire; and then I was struck by—I noticed for the first time an astonishing thing—the flames had no heat in them!
“I was standing near enough to the fire to be singed by it, and yet I felt no heat. The sparks were flying about my head; some fell on my hands, and they did not burn. And now I perceived that, although the smoke was rolling in columns, I was not choked by the smoke, and that there had been no smell of smoke since the fire broke out. Neither was there any glare against the sky.
“As I stood there stupefied, wondering how these things could be, the whole house was swept by a very tornado of flame, and crashed down in a red ruin.
“Stricken to the heart by this abominable catastrophe, I made my way uncertainly down the hill, shouting for help. As I came to a little wooden bridge spanning the torrent, just beyond where the roads forked, I saw what appeared to be a rope in loose coils lying there. I saw that part of it was fastened to the railing of the bridge and hung outside, and I looked over. There was a man’s body swinging by the neck between the road and the stream. I leaned over still farther, and then I recognised him as the man I had seen coming out of the orchard. His hat had fallen off, and the toes of his boots just touched the water.
“It seemed hardly possible, and yet it was certain. That was the man, and he was hanging there. I scrambled down at the side of the bridge, and put out my hand to seize the body, so that I might lift it up and relieve the weight on the rope. I succeeded in clutching hold of his loose shirt, and for a second I thought that it had come away in my hand. Then I found that my hand had closed on nothing, I had clutched nothing but air. And yet the figure swung by the neck before my eyes!
“I was suffocated with such horror that I feared for a moment I must lose consciousness. The next minute I was running and stumbling along that dark road in mortal anxiety, my one idea being to rouse the town, and bring men to the bridge. That, I say, was my intention; but the fact is that when I
came at last in sight of the village I slowed down instinctively and began to reflect. After all, I was unknown there; I had just gone through a disagreeable trial in Manchester, and rural people were notoriously given to groundless suspicion. I had had enough of the law, and of arrests without sufficient evidence. The wisest thing would be to drop a hint or two before the landlord, and judge by his demeanour whether to proceed.
“I found him sitting where I had left him, smoking, in his shirtsleeves, with his hat on.
“ ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I didn’t know where you had got to.’
“I told him I had been taking a walk. I went on to mention casually the fork in the road, the hill, and the plateau.
“ ‘And who lives in that house?’ I asked with a good show of indifference, ‘on top of the hill?’
“He stared.
“ ‘House? There ain’t no house up there,’ he said positively. ‘Old Joe Snedeker, who owns the land, says he’s going to build a house up there for his son to live in when he gets married; but he ain’t begun yet, and some folks reckon he never will.’
“ ‘I feel sure I saw a house,’ I protested feebly. But I was thinking—no heat in the fire, no substance in the body. I had not the courage to dispute.
“The landlord looked at me not unkindly. ‘You seem sort of done up,’ he remarked. ‘What you want is to go to bed.’ ”
The man who was telling me the story paused, and for a moment we sat silent, listening to the pant of the machinery, the thrumming of the wind in the wire stays, and the lash of the sea. Some voices were singing on the deck below. I considered him with the shade of contemptuous superiority we feel, as a rule, towards those who tell us their dreams or what some fortuneteller has predicted.
“Hallucinations,” I said at last, with reassuring indulgence. “Trick of the vision, toxic opthalmia. After the long strain of your trial your nerves were shattered.”
“That’s what I thought myself,” he replied shortly, “especially after I had been out to the plateau the next morning, and saw no sign that a house had ever stood there.”
“And no corpse at the bridge?” I said; and laughed.
“And no corpse at the bridge.”
He tried to get a light for another cigar. This took him some little time, and when at last he managed it, he got out of his chair and stood looking down at me.
“Now listen. I told you that the thing happened several years ago. I’d got almost to forget it; if you can only persuade yourself that a thing is a freak of imagination, it pretty soon gets dim inside your head. Delusions have no staying power once it is realised that they are delusions. Whenever it did come back to me, I used to think how near I had once been to going out of my mind. That was all.
“Well, last year, being up north, I went up to that village again. I went to the same hotel, and found the same landlord. He remembered me at once as ‘the feller who stayed with him and thought he saw a house,’ ‘I believe you had the jim-jams,’ he said.
“We laughed, and the landlord went on:
“ ‘There’s been a house there since, though.’
“ ‘Has there?’
“ ‘Yes; an’ it ha’ been as well if there never had been. Old Snedeker built it for his son, a fine big house with a verandah on two sides. The son, young Joe, got courting Mabel Elting from Windermere. She’d gone down to work in a shop somewhere in Liverpool. Well, sir, she used to get carrying on with another young feller ’bout here, Jim Travers, and Jim was wild about her; used to save up his wages to go down to see her. But she chucked him in the end, and married Joe; I suppose because Joe had the house, and the old man’s money to expect. Well, poor Jim must ha’ gone quite mad. What do you think he did? The very first night the new-wed pair spent in that house he burned it down. Burned the two of them in their bed, and he was as nice and quiet a feller as you want to see. He may ha’ been full of whisky at the time.’
“ ‘No, he wasn’t,’ I said.
“The landlord looked surprised.
“ ‘You’ve heard about it?’
“ ‘No; go on.’
“ ‘Yes, sir, he burned them in their bed. And then what do you think he did? He hung himself at the little bridge half a mile below. Do you remember where the road divides? Well, it was there. I saw his body hanging there myself the next morning. The toes of his boots were just touching the water.’ ”
HARRY
Rosemary Timperley
THE AUTHOR OF MORE than sixty novels and several hundred short stories, Rosemary (Kenyon) Timperley (1920–1988) was a twentieth-century woman who wrote with a Victorian sensibility. Along with an enormous amount of general fiction, she produced scores of ghost stories that tend to be charming and gentle in tone, rather than terrifying.
Born in London, she worked as a schoolteacher and journalist before becoming a full-time writer in 1960, though she had sold her first story in 1946 to Illustrated magazine. She became a regular contributor to numerous periodicals, including the London Evening News, London Mystery Selection, Good Housekeeping, Reveille, etc. It was when one of her stories, “Christmas Meeting,” was selected for The Second Ghost Book (1952), the prestigious series edited by Cynthia Asquith, that she began to acquire a reputation as one of Great Britain’s foremost ghost story writers. She went on to become the editor of the Ghost Books for five years (1969–1973).
Several of her novels have been adapted for telecasts on the BBC, including The Velvet Smile (1961), Yesterday’s Voices (1961), and Juliet (1974). Many of her short stories have also been adapted for radio by the BBC, and she has written several original radio dramas.
“Harry,” perhaps her most famous story, has twice been adapted for film, first in 1960 as an episode of the Canadian television series First Person, then as a short American film titled Twice Removed in 2003. It was originally published in The Third Ghost Book, edited by Cynthia Asquith (London, James Barrie, 1955).
Harry
ROSEMARY TIMPERLEY
SUCH ORDINARY THINGS make me afraid. Sunshine. Sharp shadows on grass. White roses. Children with red hair. And the name—Harry. Such an ordinary name.
Yet the first time Christine mentioned the name, I felt a premonition of fear.
She was five years old, due to start school in three months’ time. It was a hot, beautiful day and she was playing alone in the garden, as she often did. I saw her lying on her stomach in the grass, picking daisies and making daisy-chains with laborious pleasure. The sun burned on her pale red hair and made her skin look very white. Her big blue eyes were wide with concentration.
Suddenly she looked towards the bush of white roses, which cast its shadow over the grass, and smiled.
“Yes, I’m Christine,” she said. She rose and walked slowly towards the bush, her little plump legs defenceless and endearing beneath the too short blue cotton skirt. She was growing fast.
“With my mummy and daddy,” she said clearly. Then, after a pause, “Oh, but they are my mummy and daddy.”
She was in the shadow of the bush now. It was as if she’d walked out of the world of light into darkness. Uneasy, without quite knowing why, I called her:
“Chris, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” The voice sounded too far away.
“Come indoors now. It’s too hot for you out there.”
“Not too hot.”
“Come indoors, Chris.”
She said: “I must go in now. Goodbye,” then walked slowly towards the house.
“Chris, who were you talking to?”
“Harry,” she said.
“Who’s Harry?”
“Harry.”
I couldn’t get anything else out of her, so I just gave her some cake and milk and read to her until bedtime. As she listened, she stared out at the garden. Once she smiled and waved. It was a relief finally to tuck her up in bed and feel she was safe.
When Jim, my husband, came home I told him about the mysterious “Harry.” He laughed.
&nbs
p; “Oh, she’s started that lark, has she?”
“What do you mean, Jim?”
“It’s not so very rare for only children to have an imaginary companion. Some kids talk to their dolls. Chris has never been keen on her dolls. She hasn’t any brothers or sisters. She hasn’t any friends her own age. So she imagines someone.”
“But why has she picked that particular name?”
He shrugged. “You know how kids pick things up. I don’t know what you’re worrying about, honestly I don’t.”
“Nor do I really. It’s just that I feel extra responsible for her. More so than if I were her real mother.”
“I know, but she’s all right. Chris is fine. She’s a pretty healthy, intelligent little girl. A credit to you.”
“And to you.”
“In fact, we’re thoroughly nice parents!”
“And so modest.”
We laughed together and he kissed me. I felt consoled.
Until next morning.
Again the sun shone brilliantly on the small, bright lawn and white roses. Christine was sitting on the grass, cross-legged, staring towards the rose bush, smiling.
“Hello,” she said. “I hoped you’d come.… Because I like you. How old are you?… I’m only five and a piece.… I’m not a baby! I’m going to school soon and I shall have a new dress. A green one. Do you go to school?… What do you do then?” She was silent for a while, nodding, listening, absorbed.
