by Jack Murray
How long he had been unconscious he knew not. Ahead the light was still on in the house. It seemed to sparkle. Rising with great care, he hobbled the last hundred yards, each step caused renewed pain in his leg. As he picked his way carefully to the house, there was hardly a sound apart from his footsteps crunching through the snow. It seemed deserted, but his eyes did not deceive him, there was a light at the window. He crept up to the window and peered in. It looked like a drawing room. A fire burned, and two candles added additional light. Just as he was about to set off for the back of the house, he heard a door open.
Looking to his left, he could see the front door was ajar. He was uncertain what to do. There was no one at the door. Who opened it? Should he climb up the steps and attempt to attract someone’s attention? He did not want to wake the household for fear of angering the inhabitants. Also, he did not want to be mistaken for a burglar. A life spent on the open roads meant he was used to sleeping in farm buildings, but he had never broken into a house.
A sudden gust of wind chilled him to the bone. The cold air seemed to find every hole in his clothing and attack his skin. This made him decided on his course of action. He walked up the front steps and peeked his head through the door. The hallway was empty. Someone had definitely opened the door, however, because he had noted it was shut as he had approached the big house. Peaking his head through the door he called out, but not in too loud a voice, ‘Hullo? Is someone there?’ No one answered.
The wind seemed to grow in intensity, as if it was forcing him inside. There seemed no choice, he hobbled into the hallway. As he did so the door shut behind him with a loud bang. He spun around and tried to open the door. It was locked.
‘Who are you?’ said a frail, high-pitched male voice behind him.
The old man gave a half cry in terror and twirled around to find an old man, like himself, standing not two feet away from him. He recoiled in terror. The old man was very thin, almost like a skeleton. He could have been one hundred years old. His skin was a deathly pallor and drawn taught over his face. In the dim light, his face seemed like a skull.
‘I’m sorry sir, I saw the door was open. I was looking to speak to the staff,’ explained the stranger, perhaps shivering from something more than just exposure to the cold.
‘I see,’ said the old man. ‘There is no staff here anymore. Just me.’ The old man offered no introduction or explanation of the peculiar state of affairs. Instead he stood looking at the stranger who had entered his home uninvited.
‘I’m sorry, it was so cold, I wanted permission to lie down somewhere. Just for tonight,’ added the stranger by way of explanation.
The old man of the house regarded him for a moment and then said, ‘Follow me.’ He did as he was bid, and they entered into the drawing room. ‘Sit down.’ Without any further words, the old man then left him alone.
His seat was in front of the fire. Flickering shadows were cast by the fire burning in the hearth. The old man looked at the shadows when all of a sudden, he saw the shadow of a human figure rise up larger and larger. When he turned around he saw that no one else was in the room. He gasped, however, as he looked at a table just behind him. On it was a glass with brandy and some cold meat. It had not been there when he had come into the room, he was certain.
Hungrily he ate the meat and drank the brandy. All at once he felt warm from the inside. A newspaper lay nearby. He picked it up. It was nearly two years old and had a light coating of dust. It was too difficult to read but, in any event, he was beginning to feel drowsy. The sound of cries could be heard in the night. Perhaps it was an animal or perhaps the wind. He slept more soundly than he had ever slept before.
-
Mr Nettlestone was at the front of the shop watching the villagers make their way to the church service. It was Christmas morning and trade had been good. They would soon shut for the day to enjoy a Christmas dinner. Mrs Nettlestone had already begun to prepare a veritable banquet, or so he joked with her, every year without fail.
As he was about to go in, he saw the old stranger shuffling into the village. He waved to the old man, ‘Sir? Sir? How are you this Christmas morn? You are limping.’
‘Indeed, I tripped on my way to the shelter you recommended and hurt my leg, but I can still manage as you see,’ responded the old man.
‘Did you find the shelter?’ asked Nettlestone.
‘Indeed, I did good sir, but not the one you recommended.’
‘Really you must tell me.’
The old man limped up to Nettlestone and joined him at the door of the shop. Mrs Nettlestone, obviously having heard her husband in conversation, came out to see what was happening.
‘Look who it is Mrs Nettlestone. It is the gentleman from last night. He reports he found a place to stay last night.’ Mrs Nettlestone did not look very pleased at seeing the stranger again. She was fearful that her weak fool of a husband might invite him for Christmas dinner. Looking around the shop, she could not find anything she could throw at him to attract his attention. She walked to his side to head off any unnecessary Christmas kindness from Mr Nettlestone.
The old man began to speak, ‘Yes, I went towards the stable as you had instructed me. However, I spied a light on in the big manor house.’
Both Nettlestone’s looked at one another in astonishment but remained silent as the old man continued oblivious to the reaction of the couple, ‘I thought that it may be possible to ask the domestic staff for a warmer situation. The worst that could happen is they would say no.’
The old man proceeded to relate all that had happened. The next morning, sitting by his chair was a glass of milk, biscuits and more cold meat. Thus, he had breakfasted well. However, when he went to look for someone to thank, he found the house empty. Of course, he had not gone upstairs for fear of disturbing the family. Instead he had left the house from the back door and made his way back to the village.
Neither Nettlestone wished to continue the encounter and quickly bade the stranger a Merry Christmas and sent him on his way. If the old man had been more observant, he would have detected a look of fear in their eyes.
‘How can this be Mr Nettlestone? Cavendish Hall has been unoccupied this last two years since his Lordship died and the young lord went to fight Napoleon. Who did he meet?’
‘I do not wish to think about who it might have been, Mrs Nettlestone. Some things are beyond our reckoning.’
‘I’m scared Mr Nettlestone.’
‘Hush now Becky. Let’s go inside.’
As they turned to go inside, they heard a noise outside. Nettlestone went to the door and saw Barney Brocklehurst, the coffin maker riding his cart into town. It was still cold, it looked like it would snow. Barney had a blanket draped over his back and a hat covered his head. Looking more closely, Nettlestone thought he saw a body in the back wrapped up in an old piece of canvas. He called out to Brocklehurst, ‘Christmas greetings Barney. Why would you be working on Christmas morn?’
‘Isaac, it don’t matter what day of the week it be, when the Lord calls, ye must be ready. They found an old man dead this morning on the road out to Cavendish Hall. He must have tripped and fell for his leg was broken bad. It looks like he couldn’t move any further, poor beggar. He died of exposure.’
Nettlestone turned to his wife who was at the counter. She had heard every word. Turning pale she began to whimper. Nettlestone quickly shut the door, fear gripping his heart. He strode over to Mrs Nettlestone and they comforted one another. ‘There, there my dear,’ said Nettlestone.
‘Who was this man Mr Nettlestone?’
Nettlestone shook his head in denial of the fear gripping his heart, ‘I don’t know my dear, let’s talk of it not.’
They stood there for another few minutes, finding solace in their embrace. Then Mr Nettlestone chanced to look out of the shop window. Looking back at him was the old man. His face was blue and stamped with an expression of rage, fright and mortal pain. Nettlestone gasped and looked away.
‘What is it Mr Nettlestone?’
‘The window. I saw him.’
Mrs Nettlestone forced herself to look at the window. No one was there. Outside the street was empty and snowflakes were stealthily sailing in the wind that had all of a sudden started to blow, the sound creating a slow whistle.
The husband and the wife slowly walked into the back of the shop to their living quarters. The table was already set, for two. The comforting smell of broth filled the warm air. It was warm and safe.
Neither spoke of their experience with the old stranger again.
Neither spoke of the guilt they felt.
Neither spoke of the nights in the future where they heard the cries of pain from all manner of animals, despairing wanderers and unseen people borne on the restless wind.
Chapter 11
Cavendish Hall: Christmas Eve 1919
A round of applause and many ‘Brava’ comments broke out as Mary finished the story. This prompted her to stand up and perform a mock curtsey topped off by an exaggerated bow. She sat down and received a warm hug from her sister who giggled with pleasure at the performance. Cavendish looked on with grandfatherly pride.
‘Just one question, about your wonderful tale,’ said Kit.
‘Yes?’ smiled Mary.
‘What exactly is the curse, you refer to, of Cavendish Hall? I couldn’t quite work that one out.’
‘Me neither, actually, but capital story all the same, old girl,’ added Strangerson.
Mary laughed and said, ‘Well perhaps this was a little bit of artistic license on my part. I probably have a dozen stories like this that could all be entitled, “the Curse of Cavendish Hall”, or not, as the case may be.’
‘I must say, my good friend Monty would’ve been most impressed by this ghostly tale,’ said Kit.
Mary sat up and looked at Kit, ‘Monty? As in Montague Rhodes James?’
‘Yes, the very same,’ said Kit grinning.
This clearly surprised Mary. ‘You know, M R James? My goodness. Now you’ve impressed me. I must say, I’m a great admirer of his work. I’d love to meet him.’
‘I’m glad to have finally impressed you. Well, it shall be so,’ said Kit. ‘Perhaps you could compile some of your stories into a volume, so he can read them also. Somehow I imagine he will be impressed by the telling of it also.’
‘I shall hold you to that Lord Aston.’
Strangerson stood up from the sofa and walked over to the sideboard where there were various decanters. ‘Can I get you something sir?’ Speaking to Cavendish. ‘I see your glass is empty.’
‘No thank you, Strangerson. I think I have had quite enough for today. Another one and I should be in danger of mild intoxication. Forgive me ladies.’
‘Shocking,’ said Mary.
‘Well really,’ added Esther in mock horror, ‘the company we’re forced to keep.’ Both were smiling up at their grandfather affectionately.
A few minutes later the clock in the room chimed to indicate it was now midnight and therefore Christmas Day. Everyone stood up, clinked glasses, shook hands and wished one another a Happy Christmas. The sisters gave one another a hug and did likewise to Cavendish.
As the chimes faded Cavendish said to the group, ‘Well I think this old soldier will turn in. I shall leave you young things to your own entertainment. A reminder for those of you thinking about attending Reverend Simmons Christmas service, I should like to be on our way around nine thirty in the morning. I must greet the villagers and it would be nice if those attending did likewise. Also, Curtis has asked me to remind you that breakfast will be available from eight o’ clock in the morning. There will not be a gong as I am conscious some of you won’t be going to the service and may wish to lie on in bed.’ He glanced at Henry but said no more. As usual Henry was impervious to any veiled comment.
Disappointingly for Kit, the sisters also decided to take their leave. They left the drawing room accompanied by Cavendish who could be heard saying, ‘No reason to leave on my account.’
Esther pointed out the need for the girls to have their beauty sleep, causing Mary to laugh and roll her eyes. Strangerson inevitably took the bait to rebut such a necessity in their case. Henry, who had not been drinking, also took the opportunity to turn in and offered a curt goodnight. This left Strangerson and Kit alone in the drawing room.
‘One for the road?’ asked Strangerson sociably.
Kit contemplated his empty glass and replied, ‘Why not.’ He was not sure if he wanted to go to bed. Sleep meant dreams. Dreams always became nightmares.
They sat in silence for a minute or two contemplating the brandy. Then Strangerson asked Kit, ‘Did you bring any presents old boy? I can’t say I bothered. Perhaps I should’ve. Hope they didn’t think me rude.’
‘I’m sure not. Yes, I did bring some trifles. Perfumes for the girls and a first English language edition of War and Peace for Lord Cavendish.’
‘And the grand dame with the foul child?’
Kit laughed. ‘No, I knew they would be here, obviously, but felt the risk of causing offence, or worse, indifference, outweighed any conceivable benefits.’
‘You obviously had first class intelligence. Clearly your métier,’ said Strangerson knowingly.
Kit glanced at him but simply replied, ‘Let’s say her reputation preceded her.’
It was Strangerson’s turn to laugh, ‘She certainly is a tartar. I didn’t bother to buy anything. Thank goodness. One dreads to think of how she would have reacted to something she didn’t like.’
‘Oh, how did you come to be invited?’
‘The invitation was very last minute. I wrote to Cavendish several months ago. I’d meant to contact him long before - about Robert. I was there when, you know. Anyway, long story short, he got in contact with me at the end of the summer and we corresponded. Then out of the blue I had an invite here in November. I hadn’t any plans so thought, why not?’
Strangerson went on to relate the last moments of Robert Cavendish but Kit was no longer listening. He felt his chest tighten and the heart pumping seemed to block out the sound of Strangerson’s voice.
Kit turned away for a moment, was that an explosion? Who was shouting? Everything stopped. Then he was aware Strangerson was still talking to him.
’…it was clear he was a goner.’
Regaining his composure, Kit hoped his discomfort had not been noticed. Thankfully, Strangerson was so engrossed in recounting his story of Robert’s death and its aftermath that he did not notice the reaction of Kit. The talk of the War was something Kit tended to avoid normally, but this subject, in particular, was too painful. Desperate to get away from the conversation, he emptied his glass and set it on the table. ‘Perhaps it’s time for bed.’ Strangerson finished his glass and they both headed out of the drawing room and up the stairs.
Kit collapsed on the bed and looked at the ceiling. It was night in the Cavendish household, the house where Robert grew up. His wife and son just down the corridor. How desperately he wanted to avoid sleep. He went to the window and gazed outside. The clock said one o’ clock. He felt so tired. Sleep was inevitable and before long he drifted off, reluctantly.
-
He lay in the crater. How long had it been? An hour? Five hours? He had lost track. The night’s chill hit him at every point in his body. That’s what would get him in the end. Not the wound. Often it wasn’t the bullet or the shrapnel, the seeping of his life from the rent in his body. It was the cold. He regretted discarding the overcoat, but what else could he do? He would have mistaken for a German.
How much longer? Every time he regained consciousness he hoped it would be to discover it was just a nightmare. What could he do? The situation was impossible, he realized. Trapped in No Man’s Land, unable to walk. Why should they send someone out to him? The risk would be too great. It would be a waste of time anyway. He wondered how much the icy air was numbing the pain he should be feeling. The blackness returned.
When h
e came to again it took a few minutes for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The ringing in his ears would not stop. Would he ever hear again? Then he laughed. No. He would not. A dull acceptance that this could be the end began to take shape. With each passing minute the form of it grew and became more distinct.
A flare went up causing the sky to turn a blinding white. He squinted upwards. His arm was trapped in a barbed wire stump, silhouetted against the lit sky. His arm was numb. The cold enveloped his body once more. The layers of clothing seemed defenseless against its onslaught. With frustration he dug his fingers into the ground. The top surface was crisp with a wet frost that gave under the crunching force of his fingers. He felt the damp soil under his fingernails. And now he realized something else. He was thirsty. The blackness returned.
He woke as he felt his body being tugged then dragged. It felt like a spear was stabbing him in his leg. A voice whispered in his ear, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have you back soon.’ The blackness returned.
The flare woke him. He was being given a piggyback ride. How odd, he thought. Doesn’t he realize there’s a war on? An explosion nearby, the man carrying him collapsed to the ground. He collapsed on top of the man. Ahead he saw the British trench. It was so close. He could see some men climbing out of the trench. They were coming towards him. The fools! Gunfire.
-
Kit bolted upright in the bed. His breath came quickly. He was sweating and shivering. After a few moments to gauge his whereabouts, he fell back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling, praying he had not screamed, like those other times. The same dream: it never deviated. Yet it was just as he had remembered, so real. Was it trying to tell him something?
The clock on the wall was ticking loudly. Just after five in the morning. Like always, like then. Instead of trying to force sleep, he read a little. However, the thought that the dream was a message had fixed itself in his mind and he found he was unable to concentrate on his book. After an hour or so he finally nodded off with the light still on.
