Christmas Tales of Terror

by Chris Priestley

  The figure appeared to have long hair and a beard, and seemingly tangled among both were dozens of curling fronds of ivy. And what was he wearing? It looked like a cloak of leaves and bracken. On his head there sat a crown of holly.

  Dawn light was seeping through his curtains when Stephen was awoken by a scream and it was so extraordinary in nature that at first he did not recognise it as his mother at all and assumed it was part of his strange dream. It sounded more like a bird screeching. But it came again and he was hurled into wakefulness, though the scream lost none of its shock. It chilled his blood and sent him running to its source.

  He found his mother in a faint at the entrance to his stepfather’s room and he knelt down to try to revive her. He spoke to her and patted her hand but she did not stir. So intent was he, in fact, on these actions that he did not immediately think to look inside the room and see the cause of his mother’s collapse. When he did look, he stared in open-mouthed horror.

  Sitting in the high-backed armchair his father had always used for writing was Stephen’s stepfather. The chair was beside the bed and turned towards the door. A lamp burned overhead, illuminating the extraordinary scene.

  His stepfather’s hands grasped the arms of the chair, his knees were apart, his eyes open and staring. His mouth, too, was open, and out of it streamed coils of ivy and holly. A crown of holly was wrapped about his head. Ivy wreathed his whole body and the chair, spiralling round his legs and arms, binding him in place. He looked like a statue from some ruined and deserted palace where nature had taken dominion.

  Doctor Meadows was the next to arrive, just as Stephen’s mother was starting to come round. He was bleary-eyed at first, but sparked quickly into life as soon as he saw Stephen’s stepfather.

  ‘Good Lord! What on earth . . . ?’

  The doctor rushed forward and, pulling strands of ivy free, checked for a pulse. He turned to Stephen and shook his head.

  ‘That man,’ said Stephen. ‘The man my stepfather saw at Freya’s Hill. He must have broken in and done this.’

  ‘Perhaps . . .’ said the doctor doubtfully. ‘Have you checked for signs of a break-in?’

  Stephen said he had not and set off to do so. But everything was as it should be. The doors were locked and the windows were all intact. He came back to find the doctor helping his mother to her room.

  ‘Nothing out of place,’ said Stephen. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Really?’ said Doctor Meadows.

  Stephen frowned.

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Open your mind, Stephen,’ said the doctor. ‘This is not the work of an angry villager. I think you know that, deep down.’

  Stephen thought back to Freya’s Hill.

  ‘I went to the stones on Freya’s Hill yesterday,’ he said. ‘I had the same sensation my stepfather described. That there was someone watching me, someone who was very angry. Might not it be them?’

  ‘Did you actually see anyone?’ said the doctor.

  ‘No . . .’ said Stephen, remembering his dream but not wishing to appear foolish.

  ‘And how could they have got in?’ asked Doctor Meadows.

  ‘I don’t know. We must call the police,’ said Stephen.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed his mother.

  ‘But, Mother –’

  ‘I won’t have him found like that,’ she said. ‘I won’t have it. We will become one of those tales that people tell after dinner. Please, Doctor. For my late husband’s sake, if not for mine. You and he were such great friends. For Stephen’s sake, if not for his.’

  Stephen protested but Doctor Meadows took him aside.

  ‘I think your mother may be right, Stephen,’ he said. ‘What good could come of it? Do either of us believe foul play was the cause of his death? Or at least a culprit that the law could apprehend?’

  After a moment Stephen closed his eyes and shook his head.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Doctor Meadows returning to Mrs Levenson. ‘I will say that he died of a heart attack. It is no lie. I think that was, eventually, the cause of death. Stephen, will you help me tidy things up? Can you do that?’

  Stephen nodded.

  ‘Good boy.’

  Between them, Stephen and the doctor cleared all the foliage from the room, though Stephen left it to the doctor to pull the ivy from his stepfather’s throat. The noise alone was almost too much for him to bear.

  Stephen’s mother insisted that all the remaining greenery be taken down from the hall before she would emerge from her room. The servants were going to give it all to Inman, the gardener, to burn, but Stephen insisted that it be loaded into the same cart his stepfather had used to bring it home.

  It was bitterly cold on Freya’s Hill. The stones were glowing pale blue with frost among the brambles as Stephen brought the pony and cart up to the wall and, bit by bit, threw the contents into the trees beyond.

  The presence that he had sensed before was there again, but Stephen felt it was closer now and, instead of looking for him, he set about his task with methodical vigour, fearing that if he looked round he might find whatever it was staring at him, face to face.

  Once he had thrown every frond and leaf and berry over the wall, Stephen reached in and pulled out a small box. Carefully opening it, he poured the contents into his palm, stretched his hand over the wall and tipped the ashes out in a fine cloud that drifted in the slight breeze.

  He had to try to appease whatever it was that stalked Freya’s Hill with some sort of offering. After much thought, he had decided that nothing was more valuable than his father’s ashes, and so he had taken a handful when his mother and Doctor Meadows were otherwise engaged.

  When the last of the ash had left his hands, he jumped down from the wall, climbed up on to the cart, flicked the reins and drove swiftly back towards his home, never once looking over his shoulder. Again there was the horrible feeling that the ivy fronds and coils of brambles were reaching out towards him, almost touching the back of his neck.

  Stephen eventually inherited Woodehouse End from his mother and lived there happily as a married man, and then as a widower, well into his eighties.

  But he never again went back to Freya’s Hill.

  2

  The Musical Box

  The attic at Knowlesworth House was a wonderful place. It was not the usual kind of dark and closed-in loft, accessed by a trapdoor and ladder, but a great row of rooms running the whole length of the house and reached by its own staircase.

  The attic was huge, and filled with a mysterious collection of crates and boxes and hidden objects cloaked in dust sheets, all illuminated by a succession of dormer windows.

  Georgia Gilbey had only ever been allowed up there on two previous occasions, and the mere memory of those visits made her giddy with excitement. It was an Aladdin’s cave. There were treasures to be found there; she was sure of it.

  She did not really know why she wasn’t given freedom to explore. Her mother was not very specific, other than to say that there were fragile things that she did not want ‘trampled underfoot’.

  ‘Trampled underfoot’ was a phrase her mother used a lot and Georgia always thought it rather unfairly brought to mind a herd of animals crashing about the house, when, in fact, there was only Georgia, and she was considered by all who knew her to be a very graceful child. Her ballet teacher had said she had a surprisingly dainty step.

  On this occasion her mother was looking for a large china serving dish for Christmas Day and, while she was engaged on this rather dull search, Georgia took the opportunity to root around under the dust sheets in the hunt for treasures.

  It was not long before she found something she had never noticed before. Hidden away in a dark corner was a wooden chest that, on opening, she quickly realised contained items that must be her father’s.

  Georgia was surprised. Her father seemed to be utterly unsentimental, and yet here was a box of keepsakes from his childhood: a few favourite books, a
cricket bat, a small fishing rod. But what on earth was that, right at the bottom?

  Georgia stretched her arm as far as she could, almost falling in, and just managed to grab the small object. She brought it out to find, to her amazement, that it was a musical box.

  She turned it round and was sorry to see that, although it had once clearly been lovely, half of the box was very badly burned. The ornate lid was scorched and the paintwork flaked and bubbling.

  How strange, thought Georgia. Why would her father, of all people, keep such a thing? She wondered if it still worked, but knew that if it did, the noise would alert her mother, so she crawled out from under the covers and sneaked it away downstairs.

  Once in her room, Georgia settled herself on the rug and was about to open the box when she heard footsteps. She just managed to hide the box under her bed as her governess, Miss Goldsworthy, walked in.

  ‘Georgia,’ she said. ‘There you are. I have been calling you. I thought you were in the attic with your mother.’

  ‘I was,’ said Georgia. ‘I have only just come down.’

  ‘It’s time for your piano lesson,’ said her governess.

  ‘Must I? It’s Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Your mother was very insistent,’ Miss Goldsworthy replied.

  Georgia scowled and sighed, and stomped off towards the music room to wrestle with Mozart.

  It was only when Georgia had been looking for her shoes, many hours later, that she saw the musical box under her bed and brought it out.

  She was just lifting the lid when Miss Goldsworthy burst into the room again, snatched it from her and put it on her dressing table. The musical box had made nothing more than a plaintive ping before the lid had collapsed shut.

  ‘You’re supposed to be getting ready for church, Georgia,’ she said curtly. ‘Look at the time! Good heavens, your gloves – they’re covered in dirt. Please try to be more careful. What have you been doing to get them in such a state?’

  Georgia scowled again as Miss Goldsworthy led her out of the house and down the drive. They were heading for Midnight Mass at St Margaret’s, and although the church was only at the bottom of the hill, it was still a good ten-minute walk away. They were going to be late.

  Georgia did not especially care and she was in a bad mood in any case. She had only wanted to go to Midnight Mass so that she could stay up late and was not as enthusiastic in her walking as she might have been. The governess, by contrast, was going so fast that Georgia’s feet almost left the ground as she was dragged along in her wake.

  ‘Slow down, miss,’ cried Georgia. ‘I’m going to fall.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Miss Goldsworthy.

  ‘Nonsense’ was a stock response to almost all of Georgia’s complaints. But then Miss Goldsworthy herself stumbled and fell, nearly pulling Georgia over with her.

  ‘Well, don’t just gawp, Georgia,’ she said crossly. ‘Help me up!’

  Georgia reached out and took her hand and tried to pull Miss Goldsworthy to her feet. But she winced and settled back down on the ground. Georgia looked away. There was something embarrassing about seeing her governess sitting in the lane in her best clothes and she didn’t like to look. Miss Goldsworthy tried to get up again.

  ‘No,’ she gasped, giving a little cry of pain. ‘I think my ankle is broken, my dear.’

  Georgia rocked back and forth on her shoes, thinking of what she should do. What would Daddy do? she wondered. But then she remembered how cross she was with her father, and her mother, for going off to the ball at Wrighton Manor and leaving her with dreadful Miss Coldscurvy, as she liked to call the governess, and the prospect of singing carols in a freezing cold church.

  Why couldn’t Georgia go to the ball? She wasn’t a child. She knew for a fact that Emily Munnings was going. It was too much. Georgia even had a lovely dress. She was wearing it. But it was wasted in church – no one took their coats off.

  Wrighton Manor was so lovely when it was all lit up. She had never seen it like that, but her mother had told her about it in great detail. It was so unfair!

  And as for Coldscurvy, it was her own fault. They had been rushing because they were late for Midnight Mass, and in her haste the governess had not even thought to bring a lamp with them.

  ‘I need you to be a brave girl, just this once,’ said Miss Goldsworthy. ‘I need you to go home on your own and fetch Reynolds. Get him to bring the carriage. Can you do that, Georgia?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ said Georgia.

  ‘Good girl,’ said her governess, with another wince. ‘Run along now. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’

  Georgia turned and began to walk home. There was a full moon and so it was easy to find her way. It was all rather exciting.

  Don’t worry about me. Georgia smiled to herself. She wasn’t worried about her governess at all. Why should she be? And what exactly had she meant by asking her to be brave, just this once? How dare she suggest that bravery was not a usual part of Georgia’s character.

  Georgia slowed down as soon as she was out of sight. Why should she hurry? It wasn’t as if Coldscurvy’s life was in danger . . . unless there were highwaymen. Appealing though that idea was, however, Georgia was sure there was no such thing as highwaymen any more, and certainly not in Little Frimlingham.

  The silly woman had probably only twisted her ankle, anyway, thought Georgia. Georgia had done that herself, during ballet practice, and had made much less fuss, even though it had been frightfully painful.

  The hedgerows towered above her on both sides of the lane and the big oaks cast spidery shadows across the ground. It was cold. They said it might snow. Snow for Christmas Day! Georgia’s heart raced at the thought. Snow was so romantic!

  In the distance she heard the bells ring out for the Midnight Mass they would not now be attending, and Georgia started singing ‘Away in a Manger’ to herself as she ambled along.

  As the last bell died away, the realisation that she was out on her own at midnight filled her with sudden unease, and her plan to dawdle no longer appealed. She decided that she might, in fact, speed up a little. She was relieved to see the end of their driveway just ahead.

  She was about to walk through the open gateway, when something made her turn round. Someone was standing in the shadows further down the lane. She thought at first it might be Miss Goldsworthy, bored with the wait, but she saw now that it was a girl of about her own age.

  ‘Hello!’ Georgia called.

  The girl did not reply. She simply stood staring out from the shadows. Georgia peered into the gloom but she could not make out any of the girl’s features at all.

  Who was she? Georgia was sure she knew all the girls of her own age thereabouts, even those who were away at school and only came back for the holidays.

  ‘Harriet?’ she asked.

  But she knew it wasn’t Harriet. Maybe she was a gypsy. She had heard there were gypsies over at Sutton Lacey.

  ‘Hello?’ Georgia called again.

  But still the girl did not reply or move.

  ‘My governess has hurt herself and I’m fetching help,’ said Georgia loudly. ‘I live just here.’

  The girl said nothing. Georgia wondered if perhaps she did not understand English. What language did gypsies speak? Well, she wasn’t going to waste any more breath trying to find out. She would go home. She would tell Reynolds about Miss Goldsworthy and about this strange girl. He could deal with them both.

  Georgia started to walk briskly up the drive. She could see a light on and the familiar shape of the house standing out black against the moonlit sky. All of a sudden, it seemed a surprisingly long way.

  Georgia took a deep breath and tried to ignore the tremble that wobbled her throat as she did so, telling herself it was the cold air and nothing more.

  Though she had promised herself that she would neither stop, nor look round, she found that she could not prevent herself checking to see whether the girl had come after her.

  To her horror she s
aw that not only had the mysterious girl followed her into the drive, but she was now only a matter of a few yards away. The shock of it made Georgia’s heart flutter and she let out a little cry.

  ‘What do you want?’ she called.

  No reply.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  Still no reply.

  ‘I’m not scared of you!’ she lied.

  Though the girl stood in the moon shadow of the great elm that towered above the old well, Georgia could now see her more clearly.

  She was certainly no gypsy. She was dressed well – very well – in what looked like silk. She wore little white gloves and shiny shoes. She would not have looked out of place at the ball that Georgia had been excluded from.

  The only thing that would have marked her out in any way was the fact that her skin was so dark. Georgia’s father had served in India and he had taken photographs of his Indian servants – though they were not so smartly dressed, of course. Was this girl Indian?

  There were rich people in India, surely. Was she the child of some visiting prince? But if she was, what was she doing wandering around Little Frimlingham in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve?

  ‘What do you want?’ called Georgia again.

  The girl made no reply and there was something about the way she stared at Georgia that suddenly made her very cross. She bent down and picked up a stone and threw it.

  Georgia had never been known for her throwing accuracy. In fact, her Cousin Hermione had shouted at her during one family rounders match and made her cry. But on this occasion, the stone flew with astonishing accuracy and hit the strange girl in the face.

  Georgia gasped and was about to apologise when she realised that the girl had not so much as flinched. She simply stared back at Georgia with palpable malevolence.

  ‘Go away!’ Georgia shouted, her voice trembling.

  There was a noise behind her, making her jump. It was Reynolds.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, Miss Georgia?’ he asked. ‘Who were you talking to? And where is Miss Goldsworthy?’