Once Upon A Haunted Castle: A Celtic Romance Anthology

by Eliza Knight

  Fear and interest made strange bedfellows, indeed.

  Was there something waiting for her, somewhere in this dark castle?

  … or, perhaps, someone was waiting for her?

  She had to find out. Curiosity over the bird’s strange behavior finally won and, with a lingering glance at her husband, Havilland collected the oil lamp that had been bleeding weak light into their tiny chamber and shut the door very quietly.

  Oh, but how the wind did howl overhead, bursting through holes in the wall, or through uncovered windows, soaring through the derelict old castle and causing phantoms to jump from the shadows. It was dank and dark, the smells of rot and mold assaulting her nostrils, as Havilland timidly pursued the bird back in the direction of the keep entry.

  She remembered this area because it was where she and Jamison had entered the keep, with the host’s big hall back over to her right. The peculiar man had long since vacated the cavernous chamber, or at least she thought he had, because it seemed dark and cold now, the fire in the hearth having reduced to burning embers. Nothing stirred in the darkness.

  The big raven caught her attention, hopping and skipping, and she quickly moved after it, dagger in hand, her senses attuned to every sound, every movement. Oil lamp held aloft, she could now make out some features of the darkened entry. It was a large room with three big lancet windows cut high above the door, windows meant for light and ventilation. Tatters of oilcloths hung over them, blowing in the wind. Havilland paused in her pursuit of the bird, holding the oil lamp high to get a better look at the windows; rain poured in and she could see that the ancient, torn oilcloths still retained their hint of a purple color.

  Tap, tap, tap….

  The wind surged and the tapping could once again be heard. It seemed to rise and fall with the surge of the wind. Heart thumping with anxiety, with fear, Havilland extended the oil lamp to the room, looking to see where the sound might be coming from. Not far from her, the bird chirped and chattered, flapping its wings, and waddled through a small, arched doorway near the entry and into the darkness beyond. Taking a deep breath for courage, Havilland followed.

  The oil lamp in her hand lit up a small, windowless chamber with three doorways in it; one to her left, one to her right, and one directly in front of her. It was low-ceilinged, a passageway of sorts, and Havilland lifted the lamp up, over her head, to get a better view of her surroundings. It smelled like death, so very dank and musty. It made her nose itch. The bird had disappeared and as she timidly headed to the doorway to her left, she suddenly heard the bird chatter in the doorway to her right.

  Havilland’s head jerked towards the source of the sound and she stuck the lamp into the doorway only to see that it was a spiral stairwell that led up as well as down. She could hear the bird down the stairs, fluttering its wings and making odd bird noises, so she very carefully made her way down the spiral stairs, trying to hold the lamp up to see so she wouldn’t slip and break her neck on the narrow flight. Down and down she went, the smell of mold and damp growing heavier, until she came to an old, broken door.

  It was heavy, this door, and partially open. The old iron hinges were rusted into position so there was no hope of moving it, but there was enough of a gap that she could make her way through it. She could hear the bird on the other side of the door so, fighting off a creeping sense of foreboding, she slipped in through the narrow opening in the door and into more darkness beyond.

  It was oddly quiet on this level, down and away from the storm above. Havilland was on the lower level of the keep now, the floor hard-packed earth and uneven in spots. The walls were made of rocks and there were earthenware jars, bushels of things long since molded and eaten away, and other items that suggested that this was a store room. It was also low-ceilinged, and dark, and she could hear the bird on ahead, through another low doorway, skittering and fussing about something.

  The eeriness of the place was making her feet heavy, making it difficult to move, but Havilland forced herself, moving in the direction of the bird. As she went, she was also inspecting the old and forgotten things around her, wondering if there was something that she and Jamison might be able to salvage and take with them on their journey. The weather had been so poor that it had ruined most of their possessions, so anything to replace them would have been welcome. But what she could see around her, all she could see around her, was ruined from age and neglect. As she inspected what looked to be a pile of furs in terrible shape, the wind whistled down the spiral staircase behind her.

  Tap, tap, tap….

  Havilland froze at the sound. It was seemingly very close now and, once again, in concert with the wind. She was now making that connection; whenever the wind blew, the tapping came. It was very odd. Furthermore, she deduced that the source of the noise seemed to be in the room beyond where the bird was still fussing.

  Fighting down her fear, she slowly moved forward, dirk in one hand and oil lamp in the other, wondering what she would find when she found the source of the tapping. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know but curiosity drove her. She couldn’t resist. Hesitantly, she peered into the darkness of the next room.

  This room was small, with a doorway on the far end that adjoined another dark and soulless abyss beyond. The raven was puttering around next to one of the stone walls, simply walking in odd little circles as if pacing. It was strange behavior but, then again, everything about this visit to Whitecliff Castle had been strange, including the daffy bird. Everyone had been strange or surly, or both. With a heavy sigh, one of reluctance, Havilland took a few steps into the stone-walled chamber, looking at the bird.

  “Now, what?” she asked quietly. “You have taken me down here. Now what would you have of me?”

  The bird flapped its wings and squawked at her. Havilland lifted her shoulders. “What do you want of me?” she asked again. “You led me down here and… Sweet Jesú, I am talking to a bird. I must be losing my mind. I must have lost it completely to have ever thought the bird was trying to lead me somewhere.”

  Now she was feeling foolish, looking around the dark chamber and thinking that she should hurry back to Jamison. He was warm and safe and comforting. This chamber was dark and cold and smelled like a tomb. In fact, the very air itself was heavy with death, a sensation she didn’t like in the least. This castle, so dismal and wretched, bespoke of death in of itself; most of it was dead, other parts of it were waiting to die. There was no glory left here, only desolation.

  Whatever had possessed her to follow this foolish bird?

  Now anxious to leave, Havilland turned for the door when a faint wind whistled in through the door and a familiar sound filled the chamber.

  Tap, tap, tap….

  Startled, Havilland yelped and spun around, fulling expecting to see a horrid specter of ghosts past standing behind her. Surely it was a phantom creating that sound! But the tapping seemed to be coming from the very wall that the bird was pacing in front of, and the bird continued to hop about, walking in circles, poking at the stone.

  … poking at the stone?

  Now, Havilland’s curiosity was in full force, a crazed urge to see what was making the ghostly, persistent sound. What on earth could the bird be trying to tell her, directing her to this old and crumbling stone wall? Was there something valuable behind it? Or was it the pathetic cry of someone who needed help, perhaps someone who had been imprisoned, now crying out for assistance?

  All of these thoughts raced through Havilland’s mind as she went to the wall and peered closely at the stone. She could see that there was no mortar; the stones had simply been piled up, one atop the other. There was something in there, tapping at her. Setting the oil lamp aside and the dagger beside it, Havilland began to pull at the stone.

  The first few stones came out easily. They weren’t heavy and she set them aside, returning to the stone and continuing to pull them down. The bird was becoming increasingly excited, jumping up and down before finally flying up into the opening that Havill
and had created. The bird disappeared inside and, puzzled as well as vastly curious, Havilland continued to tear away the stone, tossing the rock aside. Was there a great treasure chamber beyond? Her imagination was running wild.

  Pulling out another stone, the movement unbalanced the pile and the entire wall suddenly collapsed. Havilland had to jump back out of the way to avoid being hurt by the crush of rocks. Dust flew up, clouding up the air in the small chamber, and she coughed as she tried to fan the cloud away. It was quite a bit of dust.

  As the particles swirled and then finally began to settle, Havilland could see there was now a wide gap in the wall. There was also something beyond. She couldn’t quite tell what it was, this shape in the darkness, so she fanned furiously at the dust cloud and stepped closer, climbing on the stones that had fallen and trying to gain a better look at what was inside. As the weak light of the oil lamp penetrated the dusty mist, the scene behind the collapsed wall came into focus.

  The first thing that greeted her was a skeletal smile.

  Startled, Havilland realized she was looking at a skull, but not just any skull; it was attached to a bony body that was chained against the wall, remnants of woolen clothing swathing the moldering bones. Beetles were still consuming the remains, skittering off into the shadows when the light from the oil lamp hit them.

  And the smell… Sweet Jesú, the smell… it was all part of that musty, moldy smell Havilland had been experiencing, only now, it was magnified by a thousand. The stench was overwhelming and the sight of what it emanated from was ghastly beyond words.

  Beyond words!

  But the worst was yet to come. As Havilland stood there with her hand over her mouth, sickened and shocked, the raven suddenly flew onto the shoulder of the skeleton, picking at it and cackling. The bird was cackling! As Havilland watched in horror, the bird picked at something around the neck of the corpse and Havilland couldn’t help but see the object; the bird came away with a tarnished golden chain in its mouth and at the end of the chain was some kind of charm, also faded and tarnished with age and rot.

  A charm in the shape of a harp.

  I even bought her a necklace that had a golden harp charm.

  The words of the host came back to her then and Havilland let out a scream as she realized she was looking at the remains of Lenore, the lovely and fair wife that the host had lamented over. But she was chained to the wall and stone had been bricked up around her. Tatters of her blond hair now lifted as the wind howled down the spiral staircase again, blowing into the small chamber and rattling the bones against the wall.

  Tap, tap, tap….

  It had been the bones blowing against the stone that had made that sound, the last taps of a long-dead woman, trying desperately to make her presence known. Havilland screamed again when she realized the overall horror of it, the horror of a woman who had been chained up and buried alive by mounds of stone, her cries of anguish forever silenced.

  But who?

  Who would do such a thing?

  Was it the very husband who had so sorrowfully lamented her death, hoping she would return to him? Was he forced to walk the earth with a terrible secret, knowing that he had killed his beloved wife?

  But why did he do it?

  … why?

  Nothing made any sense and the room began to spin. Terror such as she had never known filled Havilland’s chest. She scrambled back on the stones, trying to get away from the ghoulish sight, but she ended up tripping in her haste. She tumbled backwards, spilling through the smaller doorway with its dark abyss beyond, a dark abyss that was now barely lit by the light from the oil lamp through the opening.

  Her feet came to rest on an uneven surface. In fact, she thought she was standing on rocks because it was difficult to keep her balance and she looked down to see what was under her feet.

  It was an arm.

  … Sweet Jesú, an arm!

  In horror, Havilland began to look around her, seeing all manner of bodies thrown about. Some were just bones with tattered remains of clothing but others were in various stages of decomposition. Bodies everywhere, scavenged on by the raven that now flew in through the doorway and landed on a body, picking at the sunken eyes.

  Havilland let out another scream at the sight, overwhelmed by the gruesome sight of it all, and she turned blindly for the door, laboring to leave the room, trying to gain a foothold even though she was standing on the dead.

  Standing on the dead!

  Just as she reached the doorway, a hand shot out and grabbed her, pulling her back into the room where the bones were chained against the wall. Another hand slapped over her mouth and she was grabbed by the hair, effectively stilling her. As she gasped and wept in terror, a foul-smelling mouth was by her ear.

  “Quiet, m’lady.” It was the voice of the churlish servant. “Be quiet or he will come for ye. Ye must be utterly quiet.”

  Havilland tried to fight against the servant but he was surprisingly strong. Moreover, he had her by the hair and it was difficult for her to move. As she struggled against him, the servant spoke.

  “I didna want ye to stay the night,” he muttered. “Ye should never have come here. If ye dunna take yer husband and take him away from here, yer fate will be the fate of those ye see around ye. The master will slit yer throat and take yer possessions. Do ye want to end up like the others?”

  Havilland was having a difficult time seeing past her fear but she somehow managed to shake her head. “N-Nay,” she said against his hand. “Let me go!”

  The servant didn’t loosen his grip. “Not unless ye promise not to scream,” he said. “If ye do, the master will find ye. Will ye keep silent?”

  Havilland struggled to force her fear down, to think clearly. The servant had her by the hair and she had little choice but to agree with him. In the hope he would let her go, she forced herself to nod.

  “Aye,” she whispered.

  The servant loosened his grip now, but not completely. He still had her by the hair, as if he didn’t quite trust her not to run off, howling.

  “Then ye must leave right away,” he said. “I made sure to prepare yer horses. They are ready to go. Ye must go now if ye want to live.”

  Havilland was calming somewhat, trying to make sense of the servant’s words. “What…,” she stammered, her mouth still against his hand. “Who are all of these people? What happened to them?”

  The servant let her go completely and she stumbled away from him, ending up on her knees. “Travelers, most of them, like ye,” he muttered, without emotion. “His name is Iorick Hammer Fist. ’Tis his work.”

  She didn’t believe him. “You did this!”

  The old man shook his head. “I dinna, m’lady. I swear it to ye. Iorick did it.”

  She was frustrated, still quite terrified. “Who is Iorick?” she demanded.

  The old servant pointed to the floor above. “Iorick is the master,” he said. “Ye spoke with him this night. He spoke of his Lenore.”

  Havilland was breathing so hard, so rapidly, that she was feeling lightheaded. “Our host?”

  “Aye.”

  Her eyes widened as she struggled not to vomit. “He did this?”

  The old servant nodded, turning to glance at the bones behind him, chained to the wall. “He went mad after he killed her,” he said, throwing a thumb in the direction of the bones. “His Lenore.”

  Havilland couldn’t help but look at the chained bones, the golden harp necklace around the boney neck. “Sweet Jesú,” she murmured, aghast. “Then it is her.”

  “It ’tis.”

  “He… he killed her?”

  The old servant nodded. “She found a lover on one of the many walks she would take along the cliffs,” he said. “A young Scotsman. The master discovered them together and killed the young man with his sword. But for Lenore, he had a special death planned… he chained her up to the wall and built a stone wall around her. ’Twas a long, slow death she suffered in punishment for her disloyalty.”


  Havilland was shocked to the very core. A hand came up to her mouth, covering it as if to hold back the gasp of revulsion. “He told us that she left him,” she said. “He said that he waits for her to return to him!”

  The old servant shook his head. “She never left,” he said. “She has always been here, right in this room. ’Tis the madness that causes him to believe that she simply left him because he canna face what he did. So he waits for her return, cursed to remain in this horrible place, waiting for a woman who will never appear to him again in this lifetime.”

  Havilland was having difficulty comprehending all of it. The wind whipped down the stairwell again, blowing through the bones and causing them to shimmy and shake in their chain prison.

  Tap, tap, tap….

  “Dear… God,” Havilland gasped as the light of realization came to her eyes. “Does he not remember what he did to her?”

  The old man shrugged faintly. “He blames others,” he said. Then, his one-eyed gaze moved to the room beyond, the chamber filled with an assortment of bodies. “He killed his garrison of Northmen, one by one, because he believed they had killed her. The men ye see there… the dead ones… he killed them because he thinks they will not confess to killing his wife. They are mostly travelers, men who have come to seek shelter, but he believes them to be guilty nonetheless. He steals their money, their possessions, punishing the dead because he believes them guilty of murder. He canna face the reality that he is the murderer, that he took the life of his fair Lenore.”

  Havilland was listening with a great deal of distress, entrenched in the heartbreaking story of Lenore. “Sweet Jesú,” she whispered. “It is all so tragic. But what about the lover? Has he found his rest in that horrible room with the bodies?”

  The old man shook his head. “Did ye not see the second skeleton in the room?” he asked, pointing over to a dark corner. Adjacent to the entry door, Havilland simply hadn’t noticed and the old servant picked up the oil lamp, holding it over towards the indicated corner. As the soft golden light filled the darkness, a pile of brittle, blackened bones came into view.