by David Haynes
He walked to the doorway and stepped through it into the miasma once more. His eyes were dry and stung with tiredness but he would not sleep, not now, for his future was in tatters. He walked slowly back to his room, caring not for the teasing caresses of the mist or the vile stench of its breath. He wished simply to be away from the lunacy of Stonegate Manor.
His room was cold and dreary and the fire had long since gone out. He felt utterly without hope and he fell onto his bed as if a shot had penetrated his heart. He wept quietly into the blankets and felt the seductive touch of sleep slip in beside him.
He dreamed of the children within the paintings; their faces contorted and riddled with pain. They beseeched him and clung to his body in despair, yet he could not help them and he could not deliver them to safety. He flinched and shook as he dreamed and his mind tried vainly to send him hurtling back into the light, but he too was trapped. He too was trapped in this awful place. And what was that terrible sound? There was a screeching, a screaming, a wailing. And a cackle.
He felt his mind fight against it. It was not real, it was a dream and there are no real sounds in a dream, only the ones your mind create. But the cackle grew louder and her face grew closer until he could smell the poisonous fume of her breath and see the vile, deformed sneer on her lips.
Slee jerked violently as she reached out for him and it sent his mind racing toward the surface. He felt the last strands of slumber slip from his skin like sweat. He lay still, listening to the steady, yet quickened, beat of his heart and kept his eyes closed.
But the cackle still filled his ears and the stench filled his nostrils. How can this be? I am no longer asleep, he thought.
He opened his eyes and screamed.
She loomed over him and her mouth was ajar in a hideous grimace. Her breath stung his nostrils and made his stomach turn. Black hair flew about her face like a cloud of flies and her laughter was the most corrupt sound known to man.
He was quite unable to move.
She laughed again in the most monstrous way.
“Leave me alone, I have done nothing!” he wailed.
A loud crash came from the foot of the bed and it caused her to spin around.
“Begone, you vile witch. Leave this house and never return.”
Slee recognised Fletcher’s voice and now the crone’s attention was elsewhere he was able to move. Fletcher held a candle in his hand and he touched the flame to the painting. It was instantly engulfed in golden flames. The crone screeched and screamed but was drawn back into the picture at once.
Fletcher dropped the painting and turned to Slee. “You must leave at once. I will see no more slaughtered innocents in this house.”
“But the paintings,” Slee mumbled.
“I will see them destroyed, as they should have been five years ago.” He took Slee by the arm and pushed him toward the door. “The carriage is ready, I shall bring your cases. Now go.”
Slee looked at the burning portrait. It was already entirely ablaze and black smoke crept about the room as it sought to escape.
“He will kill you. I have seen the anger on his face and he will kill you, Fletcher.”
“Then I shall be glad for this is no existence. The house is dead and Lord Feltham is only a breath away from that fate too. These paintings cannot leave the house any more than he can. He is trapped forever.”
Slee took one last look at the fire and ran from the room. A fog still remained but it was not the damp mellifluous cloud of the night. It was the smell of a fire and it was not only one painting which had been used as fuel.
He had no concept of time as the house was still shrouded in darkness, yet as he reached the foot of the stairs a bright glow came from the dining room. It was as if the most glorious sunrise had finally been allowed to enter Stonegate Manor.
Yet it was not sunrise Slee knew, it was a pyre and the fuel was Lord Feltham’s family portraits.
“What have you done!” Feltham stepped through the smoke and repeated his question. “What have you done, you filthy scoundrel. I shall see you on the gallows for this!”
Slee stepped back. “It was a terrible mistake, I cannot…”
Feltham raised his fist and struck Slee across the temple. The blow was not that of a man comfortable with violence but it was strong enough to knock Slee back into the door.
“You have killed my wife!” Feltham grabbed the collars on his nightshirt and twisted them in his fists.
The material tightened at his throat and Slee was unable to talk. He gasped for breath.
“It was not Mr Slee, Lord Feltham. It was I who set fire to the paintings.”
Feltham loosened his grip and turned to face Fletcher. Slee slammed against the door. and reached behind his back to find the door handle.
“You?” pleaded Feltham. “Why would you do this? My wife and children loved you, as I do.”
“I will not see you destroy another life. Mr Slee is innocent yet you would embroil him in your tragedy. It is not fair and it is not right, Lord Feltham. You would trade this man’s sanity for the memory of your wife?”
“In an instant!” Feltham boomed back and walked toward his servant.
“My sanity?” Slee whispered. “What do you mean, Fletcher? What devilment am I the victim of?”
Fletcher took a step backward onto the second stair. “He knew you would not resist his offer and he knew you could not resist the temptation of a concealed collection. What collector could? Yet I am afraid it is you who are cursed now, Mr Slee. It is you who have looked into the witch’s eyes and felt her gaze. He has deceived you and I aided him to do it. If the paintings are destroyed then his family may be consigned to hell but the crone will no longer hold sway in this house.” He looked down at his master. “And now I wish to atone.”
Slee looked along the corridor toward the fire. Within the crackle and pop of burning canvas came the sound of a distant cackle, faint yet terrible.
“I will leave this place and never return. Now her paintings are destroyed she cannot follow.”
Slee cared not for Feltham, he cared not for Stonegate Manor or the exquisite art. He cared only for his own sanity. He tightened his grip on the handle and flung open the door. Dawn was still a while away and outside there was nothing but darkness. He paused and looked back. Fletcher and Feltham were locked in battle on the stairs, their faces bathed in the glorious amber glow of burning art. He turned and ran into the darkness.
It had been a trap; a deception by a wicked man to rid himself of a curse while keeping the memory and the souls of his family alive. The cold morning air stung his lungs but he ran on and did not look back. The paintings were all destroyed and with it the crone and her curse. He hoped Fletcher and Feltham would soon follow.
His nightshirt soon became drenched and the hem was covered in mud. He was utterly miserable and the best he could wish for was a speedy end on the fangs of the Barghest. The track stretched out before him and all around was nothing but the barren moors. He cursed himself for how sedate his life had become in London. He was ill-equipped to make the journey to York on foot. Barely had the gloomy façade of Stonegate Manor disappeared from view than his lungs and legs were defeated.
He stopped and bent over, resting his hands on his knees. His breath came fast and created plumes of vapour in the air. If he ever got back to London, he vowed to walk everywhere.
Wind whipped around him and howled about his ears. Then came a clattering, a braying and the sound of a whip cracking. He looked along the track in both directions but could see nothing in the gloom. The sounds came closer and closer until in the distance he spotted a carriage, hurtling along the track from Stonegate Manor.
Could it be Lord Feltham? He looked about but there was not even a solitary tree to hide behind. Besides, his energy was spent and if Feltham chose to run him down, it was a better fate than being a meal for a wild beast.
Soon enough the carriage was upon him but the horses stopped before they stamped o
n him.
“Get in!”
“Fletcher?” Slee recognised the servant’s voice.
“Get in, Mr Slee. He may follow me yet.”
Slee jumped into the carriage and fell onto his luggage as it lurched away. Somehow Fletcher had managed to survive the conflict with Feltham and put his attaché and case into the carriage.
He pulled off the sodden nightshirt and opened the case. Inside were neatly packed clothes, some his own and some Lord Feltham’s. He rummaged through the clothes, discarding those that did not belong to him.
A cackle.
Slee paused. It was a trick of the wind, that was all. It was unsurprising; his nerves were shot to pieces. He pushed the clothes aside until he reached the bottom of the case. Something had been placed inside, something he did not recognise.
A vile stench and terrible laughter.
His throat grew dry and his heart pounded in his chest.
He pulled the object from the case and turned it over. It had been wrapped in brown paper and upon the front were written the words, ‘To my friend, Slee. A gift for all eternity. Feltham.’
A whisper, a cackle and the stench of death.
He ripped it open and felt the carriage floor disappear into the abyss. It was the Feltham family portrait and deep in the background, almost hidden within the darkness, his very own terrified countenance peered out. He dropped the painting and looked to the window.
A scream; his own scream.
For it was not the moors and the leaden skies that looked back at him but the terrible sneer of the crone, and her cackle filled the carriage and tore at his soul.
The End
The Haunting of Reverend Carson
“I have heard tell he is related to the Tsar.”
“The Tsar?”
“And that he was once betrothed to Baroness Burdett-Coutts.”
“Preposterous!”
“Yes and not even her wealth could prevent him leaving her heartbroken.”
“You put too much store in the idle gossip of your companions. It is not the Tsar, it is the mad king of Bavaria, Ludwig, to whom he is a relation. And in any case, he would never court another, for he has only one true love.”
“Oh?” The two ladies huddled closer together.
“Yes, he is forever searching but she is lost to him.”
“How could she leave him? He is quite the most handsome man I have ever seen.”
“They say he killed her when she fell for another and he threw her lifeless body into the river. They say he carries a lock of her hair around his neck in a locket made from her skull. I do not…”
“Be quiet, he is coming.”
The ladies bowed their heads and lowered their eyes. It did not matter whether he was related to the Tsar or a lunatic Bavarian monarch. What mattered was that if you looked into his eyes, you might see something you did not wish to see. Something you were not prepared for. Or so they had been told.
Musgrave stepped into the parlour and waited. It was clear they had just been talking about him for the room was in silence. What little trinket of untruth were they passing between themselves today?
“Come in Musgrave, you are most welcome!” Arthur Townsend bounded toward him. “May I introduce my wife Elizabeth, and my sister Beatrice. They have talked of little else since I mentioned your visit.”
Musgrave stepped forward and bowed. “Thank you, sir.” He nodded at each of the ladies in turn but they were unable to meet his gaze. “Might I ask if there are any others joining us tonight?”
“No, just us three. Would you care for wine before we start?”
Musgrave shook his head. He had grown tired of these assignments and wished to make it as brief as possible. “I would prefer to keep a clear mind, sir.”
“Of course, of course! How ridiculous of me to offer. Would you like to begin now?”
Musgrave looked around the room. It had been carefully laid out according to his instructions. “I do, sir. I feel the spirits are becoming restless. They have much to say.”
“Did you hear that, ladies? They are restless!” He took Musgrave by the arm and led him to the circular table in the centre of the room. The two ladies quickly followed and took their places.
“Is everything to your satisfaction, Musgrave? The lamps, I hope are…”
“We need no lamps, sir,” Musgrave interrupted, “for the light from the hearth is more than sufficient.”
“Yes of course. I shall see to it at once.”
He watched Townsend scuttle about the room, extinguishing the extravagant lamps he had undoubtedly paid an exaggerated price for. The room shrank with every doused flame and became little more than a box.
“We must link hands.” Musgrave reached out and took both Elizabeth and Beatrice’s hands in his own. Many years had passed since the trembling touch of a woman had sent a thrill through his body and tonight was no different. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
“I call upon the spirits to use my body as a vessel. Please, come to us now, that I might aid your passage from the spirit world to this.”
He waited a few moments and spoke the words again. This time he accompanied it with a slight increase in the pressure of his grip. He felt the table move slightly as the ladies shifted their position.
“Come to me!” he roared in the silence. The table moved again as one of them jumped and the sound of their gasps filled the air.
Musgrave slumped forward onto the table.
“Is he alright?” he heard a female voice whisper.
“Sshhh!” came back the reply.
Deftly he used his teeth to tease a white cloth from around his neck. He pulled it into his mouth with a flick of his well-practised tongue. They could not see what he did for the shadows concealed the movements of his slumped body, besides, he had completed such a trick countless times.
He rocked backward and allowed the cloth to tumble from his mouth. It gathered on his chin before fluttering down to the floor. The gasps came again.
“Ectoplasm!” a female voice shouted.
“Arthur? Is that you, my son?” he spoke slowly and carefully in a manner which distorted his voice.
“Father? You have come back to us!” Townsend cried.
Musgrave turned his head slowly. It had not been difficult to find a few lesser-known facts about Arthur Townsend and his family. A few pennies spent here and there loosened the tongues of those with intimate knowledge.
“Son, I am with your mother again.” He turned slowly toward Beatrice. “My daughter, my, how you have grown.”
Beatrice looked down at the table and her body heaved with silent tears. Musgrave turned back to Townsend.
“You have a son, Arthur. Why is he hidden from me?”
“A son?” Arthur’s voice rose an octave. “Father, you are mistaken. Elizabeth and I were… that is to say, we were unable.”
Musgrave inhaled deeply and spoke with a dominant air. “Do not deceive me, son. I may be dead but you cannot lie to your father.”
Townsend’s shoulders drooped and he looked to his wife. “I am sorry, my love, for he speaks the truth.”
Musgrave felt the strength in the circle diminish as Elizabeth tried to let go of her husband’s hand.
“Do not break the circle!” shrieked Beatrice.
“And my daughter, you will find no answers in laudanum or the savage men who peddle it. ”
Musgrave could not have cared whether the circle was broken or not; his business was complete. He had delivered a morsel of truth to those present but what they chose to do with such information was for them alone to consider. He delivered a powerful kick to the table leg, sending it tottering and reeling against the torsos of the others. It served the purpose and he felt the grip of both ladies slip from his own.
He rocked back on his chair again and threw back his head. “My son, there is one last thing…”
Musgrave almost laughed to himself. It was pathetic really but it worked.
> “What, father, what is it?”
Musgrave opened his eyes and blinked. “I have returned? I must have been away for a while for I feel drained.”
Townsend stood up and banged his fists on the table. “You must go back. You must allow my father to finish what he started. You must.”
