February 16
The boys are not Piggy and Alec.
February 17
I shall go sick for the rest of my month. Why not? It is an easy and pleasant way out, and as William cannot return until this afternoon at the earliest, I shall simply go to Tom and Muriel as soon as I have sent in a doctor's certificate, and write to William from there.
February 18
The doctor was very nice about the certificate and said that a rest would do me good. The certificate will last a fortnight, and that will do beautifully. It is wonderful to think that I shall never darken these doors again, and to work out my notice in sick leave is perfectly permissible. I have told Vera that I am going to be away for a few days, and that she will have to manage. If William has any sense, he will arrange for one or two of the instructors' wives to come in and give a hand with the dining arrangements. The menu is settled. They have or ly to prepare the food and cook it. Anyway, I cannot help their troubles. Oh, to be free! To be away from it all for ever! I can hardly believe my good luck. I wish I did not keep thinking about those anonymous letters.
February 19
I wish I had never read about Borley Rectory* because I am sure that this house in which Tom and Muriel are living is exactly like it. I believe I am psychic. I have often thought so. At any rate, the house affects me most unpleasantly, and the atmosphere is not helped by the attitude of Tom and Muriel, who do not appear in the least pleased to see me, and are treating me so much like an intruder that I think I shall move to the village inn to-morrow, and not trouble them any further with my company.
* "The Most Haunted House in England. Ten Tears' Investigation of Borley Rectory." By Harry Price. Longmans, Green and Co., 1940.
February 20
I have had a long conversation with Muriel. She is a nice woman, and I made the opportunity to ask her—as tactfully as I could, but, of course, these things have to be expressed in words, and it is not always that the best phrases come exactly when they are wanted most—whether my presence in the house was an inconvenience. To my distress, but not altogether to my astonishment, she burst into tears, and, with both hands clasping my arm, implored me to stay, saying that she knew they had been "horrid" but that the atmosphere of this weird house had quite daunted them and was getting on their nerves to such an extent that they had already begun quarrelling with one another—a thing, she added, with a fresh outbreak of crying, that had never happened before in their married life.
This I can believe. They have always been a devoted couple.
Reassured by her outburst, I reiterated my willingness to leave the house if my presence was the slightest embarrassment to either of them, but she again begged me to stay, and then asked, almost in a whisper, whether I had "seen" or "heard" anything since my arrival. I said that I had been aware of "presences" but had not seen or heard anything which could not be explained away. What did I mean by that, she wanted to know. Bats, rats or mice, I replied, and, of course, Tom coming past my door in his slippers. She looked at me oddly when I said that, and advised me to say nothing about that to Tom, as she had already accused him of walking in his sleep, and he had so vigorously denied it that the argument had been the prelude to their first quarrel.
"And I don't believe now that it was Tom," she concluded, "but I daren't say so, because if it wasn't Tom, who was it?"
February 21
A bitter letter from William affecting to sympathize with my illness but written to point out how extremely inconvenient it is of me to have to take sick leave at such a time. I shall not reply to it. A letter from Aunt's lawyer to say that the income can be paid monthly by arrangement with my bank. This is splendid. I have told Muriel privately that as long as I live with them I am going to make Tom an allowance of two hundred and fifty a year. This brought more tears, as she tried to thank me. They must be very badly off for the offer to have affected her as it did. I feel quite a philanthropist.
February 22
The manifestations have begun in earnest. Last night, as I was going upstairs, I heard a slight sound behind me. The house has electric lighting, and so everything was perfectly visible, and I could see that some small object had fallen on to the floor in the middle of the hall. I went down again and picked it up. Tom and Muriel keep no servants, so there was no one but our three selves in the house, and I had just left the other two in the dining-room which we use as a living-room. The object was a small perpetual calendar which I had seen on my dressing-table before I went downstairs that evening. I picked it up and took it upstairs with me.
Scarcely had I replaced it in its usual position when I heard the most appalling crash downstairs. I ran out of the bedroom and Tom and Muriel ran out from the dining-room, all of us anxiously calling out, "Are you all right?"
Then we saw that the entire contents of the kitchen shelves had been precipitated into the hall—several saucepans, a couple of enamel jugs, kettle-holders, three or four odd cups, a bottle-opener, two frying pans, an earthenware casserole, a fish slice and a porridge strainer were scattered all over the place. Nothing was broken, not even the handles off the cups, but two of the saucepans were dented.
When we had picked them up and put them back on the kitchen shelves—a hateful task, since none of us in the least wanted to enter the kitchen—all the bells in the house began to ring.
February 23
Tom has cut all the bell-wires, but the bells continue to ring. I do not like it at all.
February 24
The slippered footsteps are worse. They follow Muriel everywhere. She is a nervous wreck. Tom is having four people down for a séance. He is like a man with a pet snake—fascinated but frightened. We have now heard ghostly music.
February 25
I have moved to the village inn, and Muriel has come with me. She says she cannot stand the house any longer. The séance has completed her breakdown. The four people, three men and an elderly woman, arrived at four o'clock yesterday, and, after tea, Tom showed them his journal and notebook. He has kept an exact record of all the phenomena of the house. They seemed interested, and discussed everything in a detached, scientific way which was very comforting. Even Muriel cheered up, and was ready to agree that nothing harmful had happened. But the effect of all this was suddenly spoilt when, in the middle of the séance, there was a crash and a series of bumps overhead, and when we—or, rather, they—investigated (for Muriel and I remained downstairs holding on to one another for fright), it turned out that all the furniture in the spare bedroom had been overturned, and the electric-light flex had parted, depositing the lamp and shade on top of the dressing-chest which was on its side in the middle of the room. The bedhead fittings were undisturbed except that, as Tom switched on a torch, the bedhead flex began to swing like the pendulum of a clock. As soon as one of the gentlemen put out his hand to switch on the light, however, the swinging stopped, but the music broke out again.
They put the room to rights, but I was far too nervous to sleep in it, so went off to the inn and Muriel accompanied me. Tom and two of the visitors remained in the house. The other two visitors had to get back to town. It was then about half-past eight.
February 26
Muriel has rejoined Tom. She must be a heroine and I hope Tom appreciates the fact. Nothing much has happened to-day, so far as I know. I spent the early part of the afternoon with them, and they had nothing to report except a few hangings upstairs, but nothing had been moved. Tom and the visitors occupied themselves after the séance and our departure with chalking rings round every movable thing in the house—furniture, ornaments, pictures, books (there are no bookshelves here—it makes the house seem very cluttered-up and untidy) so that we can see at a glance whether anything has been moved. Tom has a fanatical gleam in his eye. The London experts have impressed him. He is longing now for further manifestations.
February 27
There are horrid stories round the village of something that walks in the grounds of Tom's house at n
ight.
February 28
News of Piggy and Alec. Here in this village, too. Two boys answering to the description have been taken up by the village policeman for robbing a chicken-farm kept by a young couple called Tolleson on the outskirts of the village. As every police station has a description of the lads, they have been handed over to the inspector at Ridge, the nearest town. I have not seen the boys, but have no doubt that these are they. Still, it is none of my business now. William has written to invite me to go back for a "small presentation" if I feel well enough. I do not feel well enough. Nothing will induce me to visit the Institution again. They can keep their clock or suitcase or whatever it is. I shall not even answer the letter. It is better to cut all connection.
March 3
The stories in the village become more horrifying. There is now a coach and horses with a headless driver.
March 4
Muriel has rejoined me at the village inn. She says that if she stays in the house any longer she will go mad. She certainly seems almost beside herself. She says that the footsteps get worse. They are no longer quiet, but run all over the house. She lay awake for half an hour, by her watch, in an ecstasy of terror, last night, from half-past twelve until one. Tom came in at one— they share a room, but he had remained downstairs writing up his journal—and asked her whether she had heard anything. He had been out twice, he said, to investigate, but could-see nothing, and the noise stopped the moment he opened the dining-room door. In the morning, the spare-room furniture was found piled on to the bed.
March 5
These boys are not Piggy and Alec, either.
March 6
I have received three more anonymous letters. Somebody has discovered where I am living. They are the usual thing, plus a direct accusation of murder. I am supposed to have poisoned Aunt Flora. I took the letters to the police. They have promised to make some enquiries, but I have no faith in the police. They may be able to discover criminals of the ordinary kind, but they will never trace these letters to the sender. And why can't they find Piggy and Alec, if they are so clever? It seems impossible that two boys of that type can remain at large for so long.
March 7
Tom has told Muriel that he will give up his researches at the house.
March 8
Muriel has asked my advice. It would be a pity, she thinks, for Tom to give up the house, which is now attracting a good deal of attention in journals devoted to psychical research, and Tom has already made more money out of his articles than he has made in the past two years. Moving house, too, she points out, is a very expensive business. On the other hand, the house terrifies her. I told her some of the stories which are current in the village, but said I did not believe them. She said again that nothing will induce her to live in the house. She intends to tell Tom that he can live there alone or invite friends who are interested in the phenomena, and she will live with me for the time, until he has finished with the house.
March 9
Tom has heard all Muriel's arguments and it is agreed that he shall lease the house for another three months, and that if she still refuses to live there he will then move to a place of her choosing. I have persuaded Muriel to agree to this, and I am giving Tom a hundred a year of the money Aunt left to me, although I am no longer the "paying guest" at the house.
March 10
Two vulgar epithets and part of a prayer have been scribbled on the walls of Tom's house. He is tremendously excited, seems to have overcome all his nervousness, and invited us both to come in and see the new manifestations. I went, and, after a bit, Muriel (rather to my surprise) followed suit. She would not stay in the house, however, which, she said, made her want to scream. Tom sent off several telegrams from the village post-office to psychical research people, inviting them to come down and see the spirit-writing. He had a lot of fun this afternoon putting glass over it, as they have done in the Tower of London over prisoners' scribblings and carvings.
March 11
Things are getting worse—and more exciting—at the house. Last night we said good night to Tom at the inn, at which we had invited him to dine, and he left us at about ten o'clock. It was a dark night, no moon and a cloudy sky, and he went off singing. I do not mean, of course, that he was drunk. I will say for Tom that he carries his drinks well. We listened to the singing until we could hear it no longer, and then we went back inside the inn and up to bed. We were sharing a room because of Muriel's nerves, and at about eleven she leaned up, switched on the light and said that she could not bear it; she was certain that Tom was in some danger.
The house was not on the telephone, otherwise I would have rung him up, so I comforted her and she lay down again. As it happened, however, her uneasiness had now communicated itself to me and I could not sleep. At midnight I got up and dressed. I was now so worried that I could think of nothing except going to see whether Tom was all right, as I knew he was in the house alone.
I reached the house at about twenty minutes past twelve, walked up the drive, and saw a light in the bedroom which I knew Tom usually occupied. I threw some gravel up at the window and called out to know whether he was all right. He opened the window and called out to know who was there. I told him, and he replied:
"Good heavens, Bella! What on earth are you doing at this time of night? Of course I'm all right. In fact, the house is quieter than usual."
As he spoke I thought I could see a second figure just behind him in the room, and I called out :
"The headless coachman is just behind you!"
I heard him laugh, and as he did so the figure behind him disappeared. Then he told me. to go back before Muriel woke up and missed me and had another of her nervous attacks, so I called good night up to him, and, suddenly getting very nervous, ran back all the way down the drive to the gate. When I reached a point along the road from which the house can again be seen I saw that the light in his room had gone out.
To-day the boots told me the news that Tom was hurt. He had been found by the boy who brings the milk. It seems that after I left he must have tumbled out of the window. Muriel is prostrate. I am afraid for her reason. She says the ghosts want the house to themselves.
March 12
On my own account I have been to the house to see whether there is any explanation of the mystery. Tom is in bed.
March 13
Tom is giving up the house as too dangerous.
March 14.
Another anonymous letter about the death of Aunt Flora. This time I am accused of having strangled her. Three gentlemen and two ladies interested in psychical research came down by train this morning expecting to be shown over the house by Tom. As I felt sure he would have wished it, I myself let them in and showed them over, but although they stayed four hours and we all lunched off corned beef, bread, and some chocolate, there were no manifestations of any kind. I showed them Tom's journal, which was on the writing-table, and they were very much interested in this, and asked leave to carry it away and study it at their leisure. I obtained a receipt for it, and let them have it. Later I broke to them the news of Tom's accident. It is sure to be in all the papers to-morrow if not to-night. The reporters have been nosing round here already.
March 15
The police have also been nosing round. I can't think why, unless Tom sent for them, but there seems no reason for that. They asked to see us, and Muriel blurted out all her fears about the haunted house, but the police, I can see, don't credit the hauntings. They ought to stay a few days and nights in the house !
March 16
The police now think that Piggy and Alec must have got away on a cargo boat or something. I had a letter from Vera to-day sent on from Aunt's house, the last address of mine she had. William, she says, is at his wits' end to find a new housekeeper, and she herself does not think she wants to work under anybody else now, but will give in her notice as soon as the new person is appointed. It seems that Denny's wife has been carrying on with my job temporarily, but, acco
rding to Vera, is not much good at it. I wish joy to whoever gets it! When the muddle about poor old Tom is cleared up I think I shall go and live in Cornwall. I have always loved the Cornish villages.
When Last I Died Page 5
