The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories

by Michael McDowell

  ‘Siggy, dear!’ she commenced, as soon as he joined her in the drawing-­room after dinner; ‘I really think we should have the fastenings and bolts of this house looked to. Such a funny thing hap­pened whilst I was out this afternoon. Ellen has just been telling me about it.’

  ‘What sort of a thing, dear?’

  ‘Well, I left home as early as twelve, you know, and told the servants I shouldn’t be back until dinner-­time; so they were all enjoying themselves in the kitchen, I suppose, when cook told Ellen she heard a footstep in the drawing-­room. Ellen thought at first it must be cook’s fancy, because she was sure the front door was fastened; but when they listened, they all heard the noise together, so she ran upstairs, and what on earth do you think she saw?’

  ‘How can I guess, my dear?’

  ‘Why, a lady, seated in this very room, as if she was waiting for somebody. She was oldish, Ellen says, and had a very white face, with long curls hanging down each side of it; and she wore a blue bonnet with white feathers, and a long black cloak, and – ’

  ‘Emily, Emily! Stop! You don’t know what you’re talking about. That girl is a fool: you must send her away. That is, how could the lady have got in if the door was closed? Good heavens! you’ll all drive me mad between you with your folly!’ ex­claimed Mr Braggett, as he threw himself back in his chair, with an exclamation that sounded very like a groan.

  Pretty Mrs Braggett was offended. What had she said or done that her husband should doubt her word? She tossed her head in indignation, and remained silent. If Mr Braggett wanted any further information, he would have to apologise.

  ‘Forgive me, darling,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘I don’t think I’m very well this evening, but your story seemed to upset me.’

  ‘I don’t see why it should upset you,’ returned Mrs Braggett. ‘If strangers are allowed to come prowling about the house in this way, we shall be robbed some day, and then you’ll say I should have told you of it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she – this person – give her name?’

  ‘Oh! I’d rather say no more about it. You had better ask Ellen.’

  ‘No, Emily! I’d rather hear it from you.’

  ‘Well, don’t interrupt me again, then. When Ellen saw the woman seated here, she asked her her name and business at once, but she gave no answer, and only sat and stared at her. And so Ellen, feel­ing very uncomfortable, had just turned round to call up cook, when the woman got up, and dashed past her like a flash of lightning, and they saw no­thing more of her!’

  ‘Which way did she leave the house?’

  ‘Nobody knows any more than how she came in. The servants declare the hall door was neither opened nor shut – but, of course, it must have been. She was a tall gaunt woman, Ellen says, about fifty, and she’s sure her hair was dyed. She must have come to steal something, and that’s why I say we ought to have the house made more secure. Why, Siggy! Siggy! what’s the matter? Here, Ellen! Jane! come, quick, some of you! Your master’s fainted!’

  And, sure enough, the repeated shocks and hor­rors of the day had had such an effect upon poor Mr Braggett, that for a moment he did lose all con­sciousness of what surrounded him. He was thankful to take advantage of the Christmas holidays, to run over to Paris with his wife, and try to forget, in the many marvels of that city, the awful fear that fast­ened upon him at the mention of anything connected with home. He might be enjoying himself to the top of his bent; but directly the remembrance of Charlotte Cray crossed his mind, all sense of enjoy­ment vanished, and he trembled at the mere thought of returning to his business, as a child does when sent to bed in the dark.

  He tried to hide the state of his feelings from Mrs Braggett, but she was too sharp for him. The simple, blushing Emily Primrose had developed, under the influence of the matrimonial forcing-­frame, into a good watch-­dog, and nothing escaped her notice.

  Left to her own conjecture, she attributed his frequent moods of dejection to the existence of some other woman, and became jealous accordingly. If Siggy did not love her, why had he married her? She felt certain there was some other horrid creature who had engaged his affections and would not leave him alone, even now that he was her own lawful property. And to find out who the ‘horrid creature’ was became Mrs Emily’s constant idea. When she had found out, she meant to give her a piece of her mind, never fear! Meanwhile Mr Braggett’s evident distaste to returning to business only served to in­crease his wife’s suspicions. A clear conscience, she argued, would know no fear. So they were not a happy couple, as they set their faces once more towards England. Mr Braggett’s dread of re-­entering his office amounted almost to terror, and Mrs Braggett, putting this and that together, resolved that she would fathom the mystery, if it lay in feminine finesse to do so. She did not whisper a word of her intentions to dear Siggy, you may be sure of that! She worked after the manner of her amiable sex, like a cat in the dark, or a worm boring through the earth, and appearing on the surface when least expected.

  So poor Mr Braggett brought her home again, heavy at heart indeed, but quite ignorant that any designs were being made against him. I think he would have given a thousand pounds to be spared the duty of attending office the day after his arrival. But it was necessary, and he went, like a publisher and a Briton. But Mrs Emily had noted his trepida­tion and his fears, and laid her plans accordingly. She had never been asked to enter those mysterious precincts, the house of business. Mr Braggett had not thought it necessary that her blooming loveliness should be made acquainted with its dingy, dusty accessories, but she meant to see them for herself to-­day. So she waited till he had left Violet Villa ten minutes, and then she dressed and followed him by the next train to London.

  Mr Sigismund Braggett meanwhile had gone on his way, as people go to a dentist, determined to do what was right, but with an indefinite sort of idea that he might never come out of it alive. He dreaded to hear what might have happened in his absence, and he delayed his arrival at the office for half-­an-­hour, by walking there instead of taking a cab as usual, in order to put off the evil moment. As he entered the place, however, he saw at a glance that his efforts were vain, and that something had occurred. The customary formality and precision of the office were upset, and the clerks, instead of bending over their ledgers, or attending to the de­mands of business, were all huddled together at one end whispering and gesticulating to each other. But as soon as the publisher appeared, a dead silence fell upon the group, and they only stared at him with an air of horrid mystery.

  ‘What is the matter now?’ he demanded, angrily, for like most men when in a fright which they are ashamed to exhibit, Mr Sigismund Braggett tried to cover his want of courage by bounce.

  The young man called Hewetson advanced to­wards him, with a face the colour of ashes, and pointed towards the ground-­glass doors dumbly.

  ‘What do you mean? Can’t you speak? What’s come to the lot of you, that you are neglecting my business in this fashion to make fools of your­selves?’

  ‘If you please, sir, she’s in there.’

  Mr Braggett started back as if he’d been shot. But still he tried to have it out.

  ‘She! Who’s she?’

  ‘Miss Cray, sir.’

  ‘Haven’t I told you already that’s a lie.’

  ‘Will you judge for yourself, Mr Braggett?’ said a grey-­haired man, stepping forward. ‘I was on the stairs myself just now when Miss Cray passed me, and I have no doubt whatever but that you will find her in your private room, however much the reports that have lately reached you may seem against the probability of such a thing.’

  Mr Braggett’s teeth chattered in his head as he advanced to the ground-­glass doors, through the panes of one of which there was a little peephole to ascertain if the room were occupied or not. He stooped and looked in. At the table, with her back towards him, was seated the well-­known figure of Charlotte Cray. He recognised at once the long black mantle in which she was wont to drape her gaunt figure – the
blue bonnet, with its dejected-looking, uncurled feather – the lank curls which rested on her shoulders – and the black-­leather bag, with a steel clasp, which she always carried in her hand. It was the embodiment of Charlotte Cray, he had no doubt of that; but how could he recon­cile the fact of her being there with the damp clods he had seen piled upon her grave, with the certi­ficate of death, and the doctor’s and landlady’s as­sertion that they had watched her last moments?

  At last he prepared, with desperate energy, to turn the handle of the door. At that moment the attention of the more frivolous of the clerks was directed from his actions by the entrance of an un­commonly pretty woman at the other end of the outer office. Such a lovely creature as this seldom brightened the gloom of their dusty abiding-­place. Lilies, roses, and carnations vied with each other in her complexion, whilst the sunniest of locks, and the brightest of blue eyes, lent her face a girlish charm not easily described. What could this fashion­ably-­attired Venus want in their house of busi­ness?

  ‘Is Mr Braggett here? I am Mrs Braggett. Please show me in to him immediately.’

  They glanced at the ground-­glass doors of the inner office. They had already closed behind the manly form of their employer.

  ‘This way, madam,’ one said, deferentially, as he escorted her to the presence of Mr Braggett.

  Meanwhile, Sigismund had opened the portals of the Temple of Mystery, and with trembling knees entered it. The figure in the chair did not stir at his approach. He stood at the door irresolute. What should he do or say?

  ‘Charlotte,’ he whispered.

  Still she did not move.

  At that moment his wife entered.

  ‘Oh, Sigismund!’ cried Mrs Emily, reproach­fully, ‘I knew you were keeping something from me, and now I’ve caught you in the very act. Who is this lady, and what is her name? I shall refuse to leave the room until I know it.’

  At the sound of her rival’s voice, the woman in the chair rose quickly to her feet and confronted them. Yes! there was Charlotte Cray, precisely similar to what she had appeared in life, only with an uncertainty and vagueness about the lines of the familiar features that made them ghastly.

  She stood there, looking Mrs Emily full in the face, but only for a moment, for, even as she gazed, the lineaments grew less and less distinct, with the shape of the figure that supported them, until, with a crash, the apparition seemed to fall in and disap­pear, and the place that had known her was filled with empty air.

  ‘Where is she gone?’ exclaimed Mrs Braggett, in a tone of utter amazement.

  ‘Where is who gone?’ repeated Mr Braggett, hardly able to articulate from fear.

  ‘The lady in the chair!’

  ‘There was no one there except in your own imagination. It was my great-­coat that you mistook for a figure,’ returned her husband hastily, as he threw the article in question over the back of the arm-­chair.

  ‘But how could that have been?’ said his pretty wife, rubbing her eyes. ‘How could I think a coat had eyes, and hair, and features? I am sure I saw a woman seated there, and that she rose and stared at me. Siggy! tell me it was true. It seems so incomprehensible that I should have been mis­taken.’

  ‘You must question your own sense. You see that the room is empty now, except for ourselves, and you know that no one has left it. If you like to search under the table, you can.’

  ‘Ah! now, Siggy, you are laughing at me, be­cause you know that would be folly. But there was certainly some one here – only, where can she have disappeared to?’

  ‘Suppose we discuss the matter at a more con­venient season,’ replied Mr Braggett, as he drew his wife’s arm through his arm. ‘Hewetson! you will be able to tell Mr Hume that he was mistaken. Say, also, that I shall not be back in the office to­day. I am not so strong as I thought I was, and feel quite unequal to business. Tell him to come out to Streatham this evening with my letters, and I will talk with him there.’

  What passed at that interview was never dis­closed; but pretty Mrs Braggett was much rejoiced, a short time afterwards, by her husband telling her that he had resolved to resign his active share of the business, and devote the rest of his life to her and Violet Villa. He would have no more occasion, therefore, to visit the office, and be exposed to the temptation of spending four or five hours out of every twelve away from her side. For, though Mrs Emily had arrived at the conclusion that the mo­mentary glimpse she caught of a lady in Siggy’s office must have been a delusion, she was not quite satisfied by his assertions that she would never have found a more tangible cause for her jealousy.

  But Sigismund Braggett knew more than he chose to tell Mrs Emily. He knew that what she had witnessed was no delusion, but a reality; and that Charlotte Cray had carried out her dying deter­mination to call at his office and his private residence, until she had seen his wife!

  THE GRIM WHITE WOMAN by M. G. Lewis

  Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818) was the author of one of the earliest – and still one of the best – horror novels in English, The Monk (1796). An enormous bestseller in its day, Lewis’s novel also created a scandal. That a Member of Parliament should publish a novel featuring Satanic pacts, murder, infanticide, rotting corpses, rape, and blasphemy shocked the arbiters of morality. But as outrage grew, so did sales of the book. Lewis’s other successes included Tales of Wonder (1801), a compilation of tales in verse, some written or translated by Lewis, The Bravo of Venice (1805), a translation of a German Gothic novel, and Romantic Tales (1808), a four-volume collection of Gothic stories in prose and verse, from which ‘The Grim White Woman’ is taken. Lewis’s The Monk is available from Valancourt in a hardcover edition introduced by Stephen King.

  Lord Ronald was handsome, Lord Ronald was young;

  The green wood he traversed, and gaily he sung;

  His bosom was light, and he spurr’d on amain,

  When lo! a fair lass caught his steed by the rein.

  She caught by the rein, and she sank on her knee;

  —‘Now stay thee, Lord Ronald, and listen to me!’—

  She sank on her knee, and her tears ’gan to flow,

  —‘Now stay thee, Lord Ronald, and pity my woe!’—

  —‘Nay, Janet, fair Janet, I needs must away;

  I speed to my mother, who chides my delay.’—

  —‘Oh! heed not her chiding; though bitter it be,

  Thy falsehood and scorn are more bitter to me.’—

  —‘Nay, Janet, fair Janet, I needs must depart;

  My brother stays for me to hunt the wild hart.’—

  —‘Oh! let the hart live, and thy purpose forego,

  To soothe with compassion and kindness my woe.’—

  —‘Nay, Janet, fair Janet delay me no more;

  You please me no longer, my passion is o’er:

  A leman more lovely waits down in yon dell,

  So, Janet, fair Janet, for ever farewell!’—

  No longer the damsel’s entreaties he heard;

  His dapple-grey horse through the forest he spurr’d;

  And ever, as onwards the foaming steed flew,

  Did Janet with curses the false one pursue.

  —‘Oh! cursed be the day,’ in distraction she cries,

  ‘When first did thy features look fair in my eyes!

  And cursed the false lips, which beguiled me of fame;

  And cursed the hard heart, which resigns me to shame!

  ‘The wanton, whom now you forsake me to please—

  May her kisses be poison, her touch be disease!

  When you wed, may your couch be a stranger to joy,

  And the Fiend of the Forest your offspring destroy!

  ‘May the Grim White Woman, who haunts this wood,

  The Grim White Woman, who feasts on blood,

  As soon as they number twelve months and a day,

  Tear the hearts of your babes from their bosoms away.’—

  Then frantic with love and remorse home she sped,
/>   Lock’d the door of her chamber, and sank on her bed;

  Nor yet with complaints and with tears had she done,

  When the clock in St Christopher’s church struck—‘one!’—

  Her blood, why she knew not, ran cold at the sound;

  She lifted her head; she gazed fearfully round!

  When lo! near the hearth, by a cauldron’s blue light,

  She saw the tall form of a female in white.

  Her eye, fix’d and glassy, no passions express’d;

  No blood fill’d her veins, and no heart warm’d her breast!

  She seem’d like a corse newly torn from the tomb,

  And her breath spread the chillness of death through the room.

  Her arms, and her feet, and her bosom were bare;

  A shroud wrapp’d her limbs, and a snake bound her hair.

  This spectre, the Grim White Woman was she,

  And the Grim White Woman was fearful to see!

  And ever, the cauldron as over she bent,

  She mutter’d strange words of mysterious intent:

  A toad, still alive, in the liquor she threw,

  And loud shriek’d the toad, as in pieces it flew!

  To heighten the charm, in the flames next she flung

  A viper, a rat, and a mad tiger’s tongue;

  The heart of a wretch, on the rack newly dead,

  And an eye, she had torn from a parricide’s head.

  The flames now divided; the charm was complete;

  Her spells the White Spectre forbore to repeat;

  To Janet their produce she hasten’d to bring,

  And placed on her finger a little jet ring!

  —‘From the Grim White Woman,’ she murmur’d, ‘receive

  A gift, which your treasure, now lost, will retrieve.

  Remember, ’twas she who relieved your despair,

  And when you next see her, remember your prayer!’—

  This said, the Fiend vanish’d! no longer around

  Pour’d the cauldron its beams; all was darkness profound;