Australian Hauntings: A Second Anthology of Australian Colonial Supernatural Fiction

by James Doig

  “Not in bed?” he exclaimed, with a sardonic smile on his thin lips.

  “No,” I muttered. “I wish the devil had you, for I verily believe you are not human.”

  But he only smiled—“You will see me again before you go to bed; good night,” and he vanished.

  I stood confused for a few minutes. “He is some juggler,” I thought, and he intends to victimise me. I turned into my room, and arming myself with a pocket pistol, I sallied into the street again. This time I met him not. I walked on as far as the end of the township, and sat down to enjoy a smoke. Two men came hurriedly towards me as I lay, half-reclined on the grass. The stopped in front; they were both masked and carried bludgeons. I leapt up as they stopped before me.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Oh, ’tis you, is it?” said the two in a breath. “Let him have it, Jack!” said one, and they sprang at me, sticks in hand.

  I leapt backwards, and fired straight in front of me; but I missed, and aiming at the nearest of the two with the butt-end of the pistol, I knocked him senseless. But scarcely had I done so when I received a blow on the skull from his comrade which stretched me, senseless and bleeding, on the ground.

  * * * *

  When I recovered I found myself where I lay, with my face and clothes covered with blood, my pockets rifled, and my watch gone. I essayed to rise, but being weak from the loss of blood, could scarcely do so, when a friendly hand helped me; and turning to see who it was, I beheld the mysterious stranger.

  “I told you we would meet again before you went to bed. I hope you are not injured. I knew of this. I couldn’t prevent it, but came in time to give you assistance, monsieur,” said he.

  “You knew of it—and why not let me know” I asked, turning fiercely on him. “You were aware that I was to be robbed, and maltreated, and—”

  “I told you you would meet with a mishap tonight.”

  “You are a demon,” I shrieked, “be gone!” And he left, smiling.

  * * * *

  Ten days later I was sitting in the parlour of my love’s mansion, chatting away and smiling at my happiness. It was the first time that I dared to speak of love to woman. But now I had already asked her hand, and she half-yielding, half refusing, deliberated. It was a dreadful moment for me. She turned her head away as if confused; her eye rested on some object, she quailed even as the bird beneath the fatal glance of the serpent. She uttered a low, agonising shriek, and fainted.

  I left her to her friends to restore her, and, rushing to the door, sought for the object of her terror. But I met with none. Two hours later, I met the “strange unknown.” He smiled one of his demoniacal smiles, and told me of the occurrence just described. “I know it,” he muttered with a horrible grin; “but you will lose sight of me for a long time, monsieur—I leave you a souvenir. The picture which you fancied so much, the ‘Love Test,’ is yours. I left it at your lodgings,” and so saying, he departed.

  * * * *

  Three months later, and I was in Sydney. I was walking down Pitt-street. I had been to the theatre on the previous night, and, having indulged in ardent spirits, was rather unwell. I had left Victoria almost a month previous, and was seeking an engagement on the staff of a daily journal published in Sydney. My engagement with Miss C., at Easyville had been broken off; she had assented, after the occurrence previously mentioned; but for some trifling cause we became alienated, and I determined never to visit Victoria again. I had forgotten, or tried to forget, the “old affection” of past days, and was musing on my future prospects, when, turning the corner of the street, I came suddenly on the strange, mysterious individual whose acquaintance I first cultivated at Easyville. He was attired in the same fashion as usual. The same demoniacal smile was on his thin lip; the same inexplicable look of mysterious intelligence was in his dark brown eye.

  “We meet again, monsieur,” he said, with an easy air; “I hope you are well. I expected to meet you here. Come and have a glass of wine.”

  I followed him mechanically, as if some mysterious agency impelled me. We sat in a back parlour of the hotel, and sipped our sherry.

  “I am going to the continent, monsieur,” he said, “and am glad I met you. You are likely to need me ere long, but I cannot be of any service to you now, seeing that your love has discarded you; nevertheless, this may be worth seeing, if only in remembrance of past affection.” And he showed me a carte portrait. I stared at him in astonishment. It was a well-executed portrait of Miss C., of Easyville; and, as I was aware that he was a total stranger to her, I marvelled how he became possessed of it.

  “You wonder how I came to have it!” he said, with a grim smile, evidently knowing my thoughts. “I cannot tell you though,” he added; “but, if you will, I will show you the original; that is, if you allow me to do so, here, tonight.”

  Overwhelmed at his suggestion, I agreed.

  Night came, and I was sitting with legs towards the grate, reading a volume of Bulwer Lytton’s, when the strange unknown entered.

  He had the same easy, nonchalant air about him, and carried a small parcel under his arm. He seated himself beside me, and after a few minutes’ hesitation, asked if I wished to see the original of the carte? Half incredulous of his power, I replied in the affirmative, resting assured that Miss C. was at Easyville.

  After muttering something in a language unknown to me, and making three signs with his right hand, he said, “Behold her!”

  I turned abruptly, and lo, before me stood the fair, graceful figure of my quondam love, Miss C. It was for a moment only, and she vanished.

  “By heaven!” I exclaimed, leaping upright. “Thou art a devil to do this!”

  “Steady, monsieur!” he smilingly replied. “It is only the shadowy resemblance—the spiritual essence of the fair Miss C. The real clay original is—”

  “At Easyville, of course,” I replied.

  “Yes, monsieur; but in the grave there!”

  And he was right.

  * * * *

  It is five years ago since Miss C. died, and today I stand looking from my chamber window at her once beautiful mansion. The very window, when I first beheld the “strange unknown” walking up and down Gossip-street, six years ago! How altered all things seem since then! I am in the “sere and yellow leaf” now, my heart crushed, my hopes blighted, and my health impaired.

  I have been thinking of this “strange unknown” today. I never saw him since the memorable night in Sydney. I expect to see him again. There is a fatal link that binds me to this man, or demon, whatever he be, and I cannot sever it. Today, I strolled to the cemetery at Easyville. I saw Miss C’s grave, and wept over it. Tomorrow finds me on board ship for Europe.

  I never loved but once, and that love was unrequited. I take the picture of the “Love Test” with me. I am a ruined, broken-spirited man now. Fortune seems to turn against me, and I am haunted with visions of the “strange unknown.”

  I never speak of him—or of my strange adventures with him—to any. They would laugh at my silly story; but I feel that there is some fatality about the man, or demon, that I am subservient to. I hope I may never meet him again.

  The Haunted House

  Moreton Hall is the oldest and largest mansion in the vicinity of Easyville, and it stands upon an eminence not half a mile from the township, half hidden amongst the recesses of a thickly clustering pinewood. A little creek runs at the western end of the wood, and a broad avenue, skirted on either side with lofty pines, leads us to the old mansion. Years ago the Hall and its lands were the property of a wealthy old Scotch gentleman, who died on the premises, and was buried in the village cemetery. The property fell into the hands of his nephew—for the old gentleman was a bachelor. The heir to Moreton Hall estate was a wild profligate young man, who spent his easily acquired wealth in betting, horsera
cing, and such like, and eventually became bankrupt. To add to his misfortune, he became addicted to drink, and from being one of the leading men of society in the neighbourhood, he fell into a state of dissipation and degradation, from which he hopelessly endeavoured to extricate himself. The rich and respectable shunned him, the poor despised him. Friendless and moneyless, and despicably clad, he left the neighbourhood, and sought to earn a livelihood in the metropolis, by manual labour; but death put an end to his misfortunes, for on the third day after his arrival in Melbourne, he was found dead in one of the low houses of Little Bourke street. He was buried at the expense of the Government; and his name forgotten amongst men.

  He had scarcely been dead a week, ere strange rumours were circulated about Easyville that Moreton Hall was haunted. The new proprietor of the old mansion was a native of Sydney, a member of the legal profession, who had retired into private life, and hoped to live his life comfortably at the hall; but somehow he was disappointed; the servants asserted that the place was haunted; strange unearthly noises were audible at unlawful hours, and screams were heard ever and anon about the “witching time” of midnight. Fear took possession of their hearts, and the proprietor was forced to believe that there was something in it. Whether he heard the strange noises or not, he never said; but eventually the servants at Moreton Hall left one by one, and when strangers were brought in their stead, it was the same thing. They in turn declared that the house was haunted, some even averring that they saw the ghost stalking along the passage. The report spread, and the superstitious added their own to the mass of strange intelligence concerning the Hall. The proprietor left in turn, and let the place to a young farmer, a recent arrival from Gippsland. This man was newly married, and on the first night of his advent to the Hall his wife declared that she saw a man walk with folded arms and drooped head along the passage leading to the parlour. The young farmer, alarmed at this piece of intelligence, and knowing nothing of the report circulated concerning the place, instantly essayed to search for the intruder, whom he suspected to be some burglar. Armed with a revolver, he hunted up and down the place from one chamber to the other, holding a lighted candle in one hand and a revolver on full-cock in the other, but without success. He then retired to bed, and had scarcely done so, ere he and his partner heard the footstep of a man—a slow measured tread—along the passage. The young man, who was a courageous fellow, instantly leaped up and, armed with a revolver, rushed after the supposed burglar; but imagine his consternation when he found the doors all locked, the windows barred as he left them, and no trace of the twice sought for burglar. Determined to make the discovery, he called up his wife, and having attired themselves, they seated themselves by the fire, with a lighted candle on the table beside them. Again they heard the footstep along the passage, as if coming towards the chamber wherein they were seated, eagerly listening. A strange fear took possession of the pair as the footsteps approached them. The husband grasped the revolver, but it fell from his hand on the table, the wife looked at him with eyes distended with terror and alarm, and as a cold rush of air penetrated the room and blew out the light, she uttered one load shriek of terror and fainted.

  When she recovered, she declared to her husband that she saw the figure of a man, attired in shabby habiliments, standing with his arms folded, and his eyes set fixedly, fearfully gazing at her, at the next moment the cold rush of air alluded to penetrated the room, and she saw no more.

  The young farmer left the premises on that very night, and took his lodgings at a neighbour’s house, to whom he related the whole of the strange affair. Of course the Easyville folks had heard the strange reports concerning the place from various other sources, and they advised the young man to leave the hall instantly, as no one had ever remained for any length of time in the place at night since Harry Greville, the young profligate roué, died.

  The young farmer took their advice and decamped; and for upwards of four years Moreton Hall was without an occupant.

  At last a tenant in the person of an old sea captain, with a servant, rented it for a month. He had been apprised of all the danger of seeing an apparition within its walls after nightfall; but he laughed at the strange piece of intelligence.

  Armed with an old cutlass and, having his servant at his elbow, the captain waited for the ghost of the witching hour. Nor did he wait long in vain. As the hour of midnight came, the footsteps of a man approached from the farther end of the passage, and stopped abruptly in front of the chamber wherein the captain and his servant were located. This was the same chamber where the young farmer and his wife were seated when the latter beheld the ghost of young Greville. At this moment, the captain’s servant (an Irishman named Clynch) uttered a loud scream and rolled from his seat senseless on the floor. The captain threw a jug of water over him, and, with his eye fixed on the door, waited patiently.

  The captain was in no way superstitious; he believed that the whole cause of the strange reports, etc., originated with some natural design, some trick of an intriguer for his own purpose. But his opinion soon changed when he beheld in the doorway the figure of a man, dressed in a suit of grey habiliments, with his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes glaring wildly.

  The courage which supported the captain on former occasions did not desert him now; so calling on the ghostly intruder to speak and declare his errand, he was somewhat astonished to see the apparition point to a small nook adjoining the fire-place, and disappear without uttering a word. The captain roused his servant into a state of consciousness, and they searched the nook in question. It was a small aperture in the wall, wherein a stove had once been placed, but which had long been unused. In this aperture the skeleton of a human being (to all appearance that of a woman, from the length of the hair still attached to the skull) was found doubled up, as if it had been placed or compressed in that manner, in order to conceal it within the small compass accorded to it. To drag this skeleton from its place of concealment was the work of a few moments; and, on the following day, the captain communicated with the authorities, and a minute search was made in and about the premises of Moreton Hall.

  The skeleton was recognised as that of a young woman who was the paramour of Harry Greville, and who suddenly disappeared from the place a year or so previous to his downfall. He had circulated a report that she had gone to England; and the report was credited. The fact was, the unfortunate woman was murdered by him and hidden in the aperture in the wall, a place where no one would have sought for aught concerning her fate. But his shade could not rest ’til the affair was cleared up; and, strange though it be, it is an acknowledged fact that Moreton Hall no longer possesses the repute of being haunted since the memorable discovery of the skeleton, and at the time I write this it is tenanted by the local attorney, a gentleman to whom the reader is referred for the credence of the above marvellous tale.

  L’envoi

  So ends the “Chronicles of Easyville,” which I found carefully tied up in a packet at my hotel lodgings. I made researches and inquiries amongst the residents of Easyville, and found that “the Strange Unknown,” “The Dan O’Toole,” “My Friend D’Arcy,” and “Tim Mulvaney,” are no fictitious characters, and now as I sit leisurely smoking my pipe, I can see “Moreton Hall” in the distance, and I marvel much at the strange story of its having once been haunted. Of Paul Selwyn, “The Wronged and the Wronger,” I may say that there is a picture of his (painted by him a year before his death) hanging in the parlour of my hotel lodgings, and entitled, “A glimpse of the Snowy Mountains.” They tell me that the landscape artist was a constant visitor at “Mac’s Hotel” (my hotel lodgings), and painted this picture gratis for my landlord. There is an on dit report current in Easyville also that “My friend D’Arcy” is at present in Melbourne, and contributes occasionally to the weekly journals. So be it. In the meantime I beg leave to bid adieu to the reader, and conclude my postscript with a verse of one of D’Arcy’s songs
:

  “When a man has fleeced his pockets out,

  How gruff a “pub” looks I know;

  Because a man should never “shout”

  Unless he’s got the “rhino.”

  And when a yarn, spun out too dry,

  Grows dull in any quarter,

  What should a fellow do? Well, why,

  Of course, to cut it shorter!”

  POINT DESPAIR, by H. B. Marriott Watson

  H. B. Marriott Watson (1863-1921) was born in Melbourne, educated in New Zealand, and settled in England in 1885 where he took up journalism. He was assistant editor on Black and White and the Pall Mall Gazette and eventually published over fifty books. He collaborated with James Barrie on the play Richard Savage. He also penned several supernatural stories, including “The Devil of the Marsh” and the vampire tale “The Stone Chamber.” His short story collections Diogenes of London and other Fantasies and Sketches (1893), The Heart of Miranda (1899), Alarums and Excursions (1903), and Aftermath: A Garner of Tales (1919) contain the odd supernatural tale. The following story comes from an early Australian anthology, By Creek and Gully (1899), and concerns a Maori massacre.

  A generation has slipped away since the Great Massacre, and even in this district in which I live, scarcely a hundred miles from the theatre of that abominable tragedy, the facts are almost forgotten, at least blurred to a fading patch of colour. It is remarkable how swiftly time passes; and what was yesterday a fear, tomorrow will become a reminiscence somewhat agreeable to talk over. Yet upon my mind are scored deeply the recollections of that horrible scene.