The Secret of Crickley Hall

by James Herbert

  Cribben handles Susan roughly and she is crying with terror and desperation. He lays into her with the cane, her thin cotton dress offering no protection at all, and she screams.

  Two figures appear looking over the balcony down into the great hall. Magda Cribben and Maurice Stafford have left the bedroom where they have patiently waited for much of the night, ready to leap into action and help Augustus deal with the would-be absconders. Their eyes widen in alarm as they see the naked guardian drop the cane and grab Susan Trainer by the throat.

  Her cries cease immediately as her throat is squeezed and her windpipe crushed. Her feet pummel the floor for a few seconds and her once-pretty eyes bulge as if pushed from behind. Her tongue protrudes from her yawning mouth, her face begins to turn a purplish red, her young body stiffens as she is lifted by her neck. Urine spatters the flagstones beneath her, while her hands feebly pull at the naked man’s wrists. Finally, her hands fall away and she goes limp. Susan is dead.

  ‘Augustus! No!’ The anguished wail is from Magda, who leans over the balcony to beseech her brother. Maurice is too dismayed to move.

  Cribben bends to pick up his punishment cane and he strikes it hard against his own body as he advances across the hall towards the cupboard beneath the stairs. There are long welts and red stripes all over his body, and old scars where self-inflicted wounds had run deep.

  Cribben reaches the cupboard and yanks the door open. There is a screech from inside and he leans in to drag out six-year-old Wilfred Wilton, who tries to resist but is no match for his guardian’s manic strength. Once again, the cane is dropped to the floor and Cribben’s powerful hands reach round the boy’s throat. Wilfred is murdered in silence.

  Hand to her breast, Magda wails, ‘Oh dear Lord, what can we do, what can we do?’

  Her brother picks up the stick and strides towards the closet located in the hall’s oak panelling. As he walks he continues to beat his own body.

  Swish-thwack! is the sound it makes. Swish-thwack! almost a single emanation.

  The wind outside blows rain against the tall window in a sudden fierce burst, but nothing distracts the man with the cane. He stops in front of the cupboard, opens its door, stretches inside to pull out seven-year-old Marigold Welch by the hair. Her screams are cut off as he strangles her, Cribben’s rage making it no effort at all. He lets her lifeless body fall to the floor and slowly looks towards the classroom.

  ‘No, Augustus!’ Magda implores him and she runs towards the top of the stairs. ‘You mustn’t do this! They’ll lock you away! Or they’ll hang you. Augustus, they will hang you!’

  But of course, it is already too late.

  Maurice follows her, his long gangly legs making it easy for him to catch up, even though she is running. They descend the stairs together, dread in their hearts . . .

  ‘But by the time we got down there,’ Pyke told Eve as coolly as if he were commenting on a slow game of cricket, ‘Augustus was at the classroom doorway.’

  Loren was now perfectly still in her mother’s arms and Eve worried that she might be in shock. As for Eve herself, she was completely unnerved as Pyke recounted his horrific tale. She could have wept for the poor innocents who had been forced from their hiding places to be brutally killed, but she knew she mustn’t break down, she had to be ready when the chance to flee came.

  ‘Magda stood in front of her brother, blocking his way, begging him to stop. When I tried to help her, pulling on his arm, trying to divert him from the classroom, he turned and looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. Then he started lashing out at me with his stick. I fell to the floor and curled up there so he couldn’t hurt me too much. I’ll admit, I became hysterical, in fear for my own life, and it was only when Magda fell across me that he held back. It was as if he suddenly remembered the other children, because he stared through the classroom doorway. Perhaps one of them screamed or scraped a chair, distracting him from me.

  ‘He left us lying there, both of us weeping with pain and despair. But before he went in, I saw his face, and I’ve never forgotten it. It was full of hatred and anger – no, wrath would be the better word. He was possessed by it. Nothing would stop him murdering every one of those children. I knew it, Magda knew it. But what we feared most was that he would turn on us once all the others had been dealt with. It was in his eyes, a madness, when he stared at us both.’

  Pyke fingered the end of his walking stick, but did not pick it up.

  ‘Magda knew there was no going back now. We might have been able to account for the teacher’s absence and we could cover up Stefan’s death by saying he’d broken the strict rules and gone down to the cellar on his own the only time the cellar door had been left unlocked, but how could we explain the deaths of all the other orphans? No, we were in an impossible situation.

  ‘Magda’s face became grim, more stony than I’d ever known it to be. We had to leave the house, she told me. Leave the charnel house before we ourselves became victims. We had to get far away from Crickley Hall. I think by that time she had cracked like her brother. Oh, you wouldn’t know it to look at her, but there was a distance in her manner, as if mentally she had already left Crickley Hall.

  ‘We didn’t even stop to put on coats; we fled the house as we were. The keys were lying on the floor just outside the kitchen and Magda picked them up and unlocked the front door. We didn’t care about the storm, we just wanted to get away from the carnage. I had no idea where we were going, or what we were to do: I went with her and once outside she never spoke another word. Of course, I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was in shock, terrified of her own brother, knowing that they would both be in terrible trouble. Something inside her closed down that night and apparently she has remained in that state ’til this day. We stumbled through the storm for most of the night, fortunately missing the flood that created even more havoc.’

  He shook his head at the thought.

  ‘And while we fled, Augustus Cribben’s rampage continued . . .’

  The grooves that Lili’s tense fingers had dug in the soft earth had grown deeper so that only the second knuckles of her hand were visible. She remained physically snug in her semi-conscious condition, as if cocooned from the rain, but her mind was in panic as Cribben went on with the killings . . .

  Three of the orphans are concealed beneath the tables that are used as desks in the makeshift classroom. Gloomy light from the hall spills through the open doorway and they silently pray they will not be discovered in the shadows under the tables. They listen to the familiar sound – swish-thwack! it goes, swish-thwack! – and it is growing louder as the guardian draws close.

  Cribben pauses on the threshold and he knows where the children are hiding.

  Swish-thwack!

  The swift sharp pain on his bare thigh is exquisite, but it fails to subdue the burning agony inside his head. He feels his brain must explode into molten fragments.

  Oh Lord, he silently beseeches, relieve me of this cruel burden! Take away this penance and I will serve you all my days!

  He sways, almost staggers, and his eyes are shut tight against the suffering. One hand presses his brow in the vain hope of absorbing the worst of it. Augustus Cribben forces his eyes open again and even the feeble light from the oil lamps hurts them. Almost overwhelmed but driven by pain, he squints into the shadows and finds the small crouching figures hiding under the tables.

  It’s these worthless children who should and would be punished. They had tried to sneak away from Crickley Hall, no doubt to spin their lies and accusations of maltreatment to anyone who would listen. How he despises these wretched ingrates and sinners. He will not allow them to spread their falsehoods. No, tonight they must pay for their treachery. Tonight their iniquitous souls will be offered up to the Lord before they can be corrupted irredeemably. Only then could a benevolent God grant them His forgiveness.

  Like a lightning bolt from a troubled sky, a fresh excruciating pain sears his brain and he howls h
is confusion and distress. The children! They were why he was being punished! He must find them all and give them up to the Lord before their corruption was complete.

  Swish-thwack!

  He moves into the classroom and the orphans cower, try to make themselves even smaller. But the tables are swept aside and they are exposed. Cribben grabs the nearest child, seven-year-old Mavis Borrington, and it is easier to twist and snap her neck than choke her. While he throttles nine-year-old Eugene Smith, the third child scuttles into a corner and buries his face in his hands, his body curled up into a tight ball. Seven-year-old Arnold Brown becomes perfectly still as if by not moving he will not be noticed. But he is mistaken.

  First, Cribben flogs the screaming boy’s back with the cane, and when his victim tries to crawl away, Cribben stands over him. The guardian leans over Arnold and cups his strong hands beneath the evacuee’s chin. Cribben jerks the boy’s head backwards and relishes the sound of small bones breaking.

  There are still three more to account for. He looks about him, but there is no one else – no one living – in the room. He is breathing heavily with the exertion, but there is a gleam in his black eyes that indicates a spiteful lunacy.

  He leaves the room and continues the search.

  Swish-thwack!

  He makes his way upstairs . . .

  72: FEAR

  Pyke was now standing on the small square landing beneath the tall window, the torchère behind him; sitting had proved too uncomfortable, his knee was aching. He contemplated Eve and Loren, who still lay sprawled on the stairs, the frightened girl comforted in her mother’s arms.

  ‘I returned to London on my own, you know.’ He appeared to be boasting, as though he had achieved something heroic and grand. ‘A mere lad of twelve years. And I survived, even though there was a war on; or perhaps it was because of the war that I went unnoticed for some time. Eventually I found a home and was adopted by a well-meaning but simple couple who had no—’

  Eve had had enough. Scared and disturbed as she was by Pyke’s gruesome story, and without knowing how much more she – and Loren – could take, she interrupted him. But she kept her voice falsely mild because she did not want to antagonize him.

  ‘Mr Pyke, I asked you before: what do you want from us?’

  ‘Ah, I can tell I’m boring you. But decent exposition takes time. Besides, it’s almost a relief to unburden myself of the knowledge I’ve carried around with me for decades. The only other person to hear it is completely batty. Magda Cribben neither speaks nor responds to anything put to her; she doesn’t even indicate that she understands what’s being said. So you see, it’s good to share the secret of what happened in Crickley Hall all those years ago with you.’

  Fear and uncertainty were beginning to turn into a rising anger and Eve knew she had to control it. After learning that Cam really was dead she had felt almost doped, somehow remote from everything around her. She hadn’t become hysterical as might have been expected; she hadn’t even wept. She had spent the rest of the day in a listless and detached state, her exhaustion almost overwhelming. That was why she had allowed this man into her home tonight, her will softened by tiredness.

  But now she was alert, adrenaline rushing through her system like a whirlwind. She had to stay calm though, for Loren’s sake and her own. Eve had to watch her tone so that it revealed no hostility, nothing to arouse this lunatic’s ire.

  ‘We can’t help you,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is you want from us, we can’t help.’ She was emboldened by his reaction – or lack of reaction. ‘Please, can’t you just collect your equipment and leave? We trusted you.’

  ‘Yes, you did. You did trust me.’ He smiled. ‘That was your mistake, though.’

  ‘Mistake? I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘You invited me into your home. That was a huge mistake. But meeting your daughter, Loren, outside confirmed what was meant to be. I knew her destiny immediately.’

  Eve stiffened, any calmness she might have had swiftly vanishing. She tensed her body, ready to pull Loren to her feet.

  He seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Let me finish, Eve. Let me explain why this has to happen.’

  Pyke rested both hands on the back of his walking stick.

  ‘My life after Crickley Hall would have been fine except for two intrusions. If I told you that both literally drove me mad for a time, I’m sure you’d believe me. You would, wouldn’t you?’

  Eve was careful. Yes, she could see the madness in his eyes. He was as crazy as his guardian, Augustus Cribben. He was as demented as Magda Cribben. Perhaps Pyke had caught it from the brother and sister like some virulent kind of disease. Or perhaps it had been their mutual insanity that had once united all three of them.

  ‘Sometimes a culmination of events can induce a breakdown,’ she ventured tentatively, nervously. Instinct, and the incident with Lili, told her he was a very dangerous man.

  He seemed to be looking into the distance but in fact his gaze was inwards. When he spoke it was almost to himself.

  ‘I think I could tolerate the dreams, although they wearied me. But the hauntings . . . the hauntings are more than I can bear.’

  ‘You told us yesterday you didn’t believe in ghosts,’ Eve said, genuinely surprised.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Pyke replied impatiently, his attention having returned. ‘You said that before and I told you I lied.’

  Eve was ready to kick out with her feet if he came close. But Pyke hadn’t done with talking.

  ‘I suppose I could live with the dreams even though they came night after night, relentless in their consistency, always the children accusing me of betraying them.’

  He banged his walking stick against the floor.

  ‘But I could bear that! I could live with the dreams if only Augustus would stop torturing me, if only he would leave me alone.’

  Eve gasped. He was truly insane. And yet . . . and yet hadn’t she felt a presence in this house, something foul, something vile? The ghost of Augustus Cribben? Perhaps she was becoming a little unhinged herself. But a question nagged at her: why should meeting Loren mean so much to him? It confirmed what was meant to be, he had said. What was meant to be? What was Loren’s destiny? Already scared, a terrible dread began to rise from deep inside her.

  ‘The hauntings began soon after I returned to London. At least I heard the sound of his cane thrashing against flesh – I knew that sound. Oh yes, I had come to know it well – then his spirit would manifest itself. Even in spirit he would raise that cane against me and I felt its pain as if it were real, even though I’d never physically been struck by it.’

  Eve remembered the other night when Loren had screamed in bed, claiming someone had beaten her.

  Pyke visibly shuddered. ‘Sometimes his image was weak, as if he were slowly losing power. The smell was always there, though, the whiff of strong carbolic soap which he always used to cleanse himself, but mixed with an aroma of what might be described as rotting corpses. At other times the apparitions are strong, as clear to me as you are now, and that’s when he seems to sap my energy, leaving me weak and afraid. Sometimes he’s completely black and that’s when I fear him most.’

  Pyke cast his eyes downwards as though studying the end of his walking stick; but his thoughts were elsewhere again, perhaps reliving the hauntings.

  ‘It took me many years to realize the reason for his visits.’ Pyke’s voice was low. ‘Augustus wanted something from me, but still I didn’t know what it was.’

  Lili wanted to escape the slaughter, was desperate to wake from the brutal scenes of remorseless, pitiless violence. But her mind was held captive to the horror and she was compelled to watch . . .

  . . . There are only three children left alive in the house and they huddle in the sable darkness of the cupboard on the landing. Brenda Prosser, aged ten years, and her younger brother Gerald, aged eight years, and Patience Frost, who is only six years old, clutch each other tightly, the youngest girl in the middle. Patience
has wet her knickers.

  They have heard the screams echo round the great hall, all of them abruptly cut short. A long silence follows as their guardian searches other rooms downstairs for them. Then the dreaded sound comes to the three survivors, faint at first, but growing louder by the moment.

  Swish-thwack!

  It’s coming closer. Up the stairs.

  Swish-thwack!

  The children cling together, shivering as one. Gerald’s teeth are chattering and his sister claps a hand over his mouth. They mustn’t make any noise at all. Gerald and Patience are crying and Brenda’s eyes are wide and startled, for she cannot comprehend what is happening to them.

  Swish-thwack!

  Growing louder.

  Swish-thwack!

  Almost one sound.

  Swish-thwack!

  Pausing a few moments as though the wielder of the stick is looking into doors along the landing.

  Lili now sees and hears everything through the eyes and ears of one of the children hidden in the darkness . . .

  . . . Footsteps approach, softly because the predator wears no shoes, coming closer, the children afraid to breathe, every few seconds the cane making the sharp thwacking sound they know so well. The light footsteps stop.

  He is outside the cupboard door.

  All three shriek as the door suddenly swings open. They dig their heels into the floorboards as they try to push themselves as far back into the cupboard as possible. Gerald is now wailing and Brenda is shouting, ‘Get away! Get away!’ They hunch their shoulders and press their foreheads against their bent knees, and they refuse to see the naked man who is leaning through the open door, the long, thin stick with the splayed end in his hand.

  One by one Cribben draws them out and one by one he murders them. He strangles the boy and snaps the neck of the little girl. Brenda is last, and he grabs her ankle and yanks hard so that she slides out onto the landing. This girl’s struggling body is held off the floor by her neck, as was Susan Trainer’s only minutes before, and her feet kick out at him uselessly. But he doesn’t feel the blows; nothing could detract from the pain inside his head. He squeezes, tighter and tighter, and Brenda’s frightened, despairing eyes almost pop out of their sockets with the pressure, and her tongue, its tip trapped by her lower teeth, curls over to bulge from her mouth.