“‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s not a burglar. But I’ve found out what I wanted, that you do your morning’s work over night. But you mustn’t wait for me when I choose to sit up. And now go back to your bed like a good soul, whilst I take a run down to the beach.’
“She stood blinking in the dawn. Her face was still white.
“‘Oh, miss,’ she gasped, ‘I made sure you must have seen something!’
“‘And so I have,’ I answered, ‘but it was neither burglars nor ghosts.’
“‘Thank God!’ I heard her say as she turned her back to me in her grey bedroom—which faced the north. And I took this for a carelessly pious expression and ran downstairs, thinking no more of it.
“A few days later I began to understand.
“The plan of Tresillack house (I must explain) was simplicity itself. To the left of the hall as you entered was the dining-room; to the right the drawing-room, with a boudoir beyond. The foot of the stairs faced the front door, and beside it, passing a glazed inner door, you found two others right and left, the left opening on the kitchen, the right on a passage which ran by a store-cupboard under the bend of the stairs to a neat pantry with the usual shelves and linen-press, and under the window (which faced north) a porcelain basin and brass tap. On the first morning of my tenancy I had visited this pantry and turned the tap; but no water ran. I supposed this to be accidental. Mrs. Carkeek had to wash up glass ware and crockery, and no doubt Mrs. Carkeek would complain of any failure in the water supply.
“But the day after my surprise visit (as I called it) I had picked a basketful of roses, and carried them into the pantry as a handy place to arrange them in. I chose a china bowl and went to fill it at the tap. Again the water would not run.
“I called Mrs. Carkeek. ‘What is wrong with this tap?’ I asked. ‘The rest of the house is well enough supplied.’
“‘I don’t know, miss. I never use it.’
“‘But there must be a reason; and you must find it a great nuisance washing up the plate and glasses in the kitchen. Come around to the back with me, and we’ll have a look at the cisterns.’
“‘The cisterns’ll be all right, miss. I assure you I don’t find it a trouble.’
“But I was not to be put off. The back of the house stood but ten feet from a wall which was really but a stone face built against the cliff cut away by the architect. Above the cliff rose the kitchen garden, and from its lower path we looked over the wall’s parapet upon the cisterns. There were two—a very large one, supplying the kitchen and the bathroom above the kitchen; and a small one, obviously fed by the other, and as obviously leading, by a pipe which I could trace, to the pantry. Now the big cistern stood almost full, and yet the small one, though on a lower level, was empty.
“‘It’s as plain as daylight,’ said I. ‘The pipe between the two is choked.’ And I clambered on to the parapet.
“‘I wouldn’t, miss. The pantry tap is only cold water, and no use to me. From the kitchen boiler I gets it hot, you see.’
“‘But I want the pantry water for my flowers.’ I bent over and groped. ‘I thought as much!’ said I, as I wrenched out a thick plug of cork and immediately the water began to flow. I turned triumphantly on Mrs. Carkeek, who had grown suddenly red in the face. Her eyes were fixed on the cork in my hand. To keep it more firmly wedged in its place somebody had wrapped it round with a rag of calico print; and, discoloured though the rag was, I seemed to recall the pattern (a lilac sprig). Then, as our eyes met, it occurred to me that only two mornings before Mrs. Carkeek had worn a print gown of that same sprigged pattern.
“I had the presence of mind to hide this very small discovery, sliding over it some quite trivial remark; and presently Mrs. Carkeek regained her composure. But I own I felt disappointed in her. It seemed such a paltry thing to be disingenuous over. She had deliberately acted a fib before me; and why? Merely because she preferred the kitchen to the pantry tap. It was childish. ‘But servants are all the same,’ I told myself. ‘I must take Mrs. Carkeek as she is; and, after all, she is a treasure.’
“On the second night after this, and between eleven and twelve o’clock, I was lying in bed and reading myself sleepy over a novel of Lord Lytton’s, when a small sound disturbed me. I listened. The sound was clearly that of water trickling; and I set it down to rain. A shower (I told myself) had filled the water-pipes which drained the roof. Somehow I could not fix the sound. There was a water pipe against the wall just outside my window. I rose and drew up the blind.
“To my astonishment no rain was falling; no rain had fallen. I felt the slate window-sill; some dew had gathered there—no more. There was no wind, no cloud: only a still moon high over the eastern slope of the coombe, the distant plash of waves, and the fragrance of many roses. I went back to bed and listened again. Yes, the trickling sound continued, quite distinct in the silence of the house, not to be confused for a moment with the dull murmur of the beach. After a while it began to grate on my nerves. I caught up my candle, flung my dressing-gown about me, and stole softly downstairs.
“Then it was simple. I traced the sound to the pantry. ‘Mrs. Carkeek has left the tap running,’ said I: and, sure enough, I found it so—a thin trickle steadily running to waste in the porcelain basin. I turned off the tap, went contentedly back to my bed, and slept.
“—for some hours. I opened my eyes in darkness, and at once knew what had awakened me. The tap was running again. Now it had shut easily in my hand, but not so easily that I could believe it had slipped open again of its own accord. ‘This is Mrs. Carkeek’s doing,’ said I; and am afraid I added ‘Bother Mrs. Carkeek!’
“Well, there was no help for it: so I struck a light, looked at my watch, saw that the hour was just three o’clock, and descended the stairs again. At the pantry door I paused. I was not afraid—not one little bit. In fact the notion that anything might be wrong had never crossed my mind. But I remember thinking, with my hand on the door, that if Mrs. Carkeek were in the pantry I might happen to give her a severe fright.
“I pushed the door open briskly. Mrs. Carkeek was not there. But something was there, by the porcelain basin—something which might have sent me scurrying upstairs two steps at a time, but which as a matter of fact held me to the spot. My heart seemed to stand still—so still! And in the stillness I remember setting down the brass candlestick on a tall nest of drawers beside me.
“Over the porcelain basin and beneath the water trickling from the tap I saw two hands.
“That was all—two small hands, a child’s hands. I cannot tell you how they ended.
“No: they were not cut off. I saw them quite distinctly: just a pair of small hands and the wrists, and after that—nothing. They were moving briskly—washing themselves clean. I saw the water trickle and splash over them—not through them—but just as it would on real hands. They were the hands of a little girl, too. Oh, yes, I was sure of that at once. Boys and girls wash their hands differently. I can’t just tell you what the difference is, but it’s unmistakable.
“I saw all this before my candle slipped and fell with a crash. I had set it down without looking—for my eyes were fixed on the basin—and had balanced it on the edge of the nest of drawers. After the crash, in the darkness there, with the water running, I suffered some bad moments. Oddly enough, the thought uppermost with me was that I must shut off that tap before escaping. I had to. And after a while I picked up all my courage, so to say, between my teeth, and with a little sob thrust out my hand and did it. Then I fled.
“The dawn was close upon me: and as soon as the sky reddened I took my bath, dressed and went downstairs. And there at the pantry door I found Mrs. Carkeek, also dressed, with my candlestick in her hand.
“‘Ah!’ said I, ‘you picked it up.’
“Our eyes met. Clearly Mrs. Carkeek wished me to begin, and I determined at once to
have it out with her.
“‘And you knew all about it. That’s what accounts for your plugging up the cistern.’
“‘You saw…?’ she began.
“‘Yes, yes. And you must tell me all about it—never mind how bad. Is—is it—murder?’
“‘Law bless you, miss, whatever put such horrors in your head?’
“‘She was washing her hands.’
“‘Ah, so she does, poor dear! But—murder! And dear little Miss Margaret, that wouldn’t go to hurt a fly!’
“‘Miss Margaret?’
“‘Eh, she died at seven year. Squire Kendall’s only daughter; and that’s over twenty year ago. I was her nurse, miss, and I know-diphtheria it was; she took it down in the village.’
“‘But how do you know it is Margaret?’
“‘Those hands—why, how could I mistake, that used to be her nurse?’
“‘But why does she wash them?’
“‘Well, miss, being always a dainty child—and the house-work, you see—’
“I took a long breath. ‘Do you mean to tell me that all this tidying and dusting—’ I broke off. ‘Is it she who has been taking this care of me?’
“Mrs. Carkeek met my look steadily.
“‘Who else, miss?’
“‘Poor little soul!’
“‘Well now’—Mrs. Carkeek rubbed my candlestick with the edge of her apron—‘I’m so glad you take it like this. For there isn’t really nothing to be afraid of—is there?’ She eyed me wistfully. ‘It’s my belief she loves you, miss. But only to think what a time she must have had with the others!’
“‘The others?’ I echoed.
“‘The other tenants, miss: the ones afore you.’
“‘Were they bad?’
“‘They was awful. Didn’t Farmer Hosking tell you? They carried on fearful—one after another, and each one worse than the last.”
“‘What was the matter with them? Drink?’
“‘Drink, miss, with some of ’em. There was the Major—he used to go mad with it, and run about the coombe in his nightshirt. Oh, scandalous! And his wife drank too—that is, if she ever was his wife. Just think of that tender child washing Up after their nasty doings!’
“I shivered.
“‘But that wasn’t the worst, miss—not by a long way. There was a pair here—from the colonies, or so they gave out—with two children, a boy and gel, the eldest scarce six. Poor mites!’
“‘Why, what happened?’
“‘They beat those children, miss—your blood would boil!—and starved, and tortured ’em, it’s my belief. You could hear their screams, I’ve been told, away back in the high-road, and that’s the best part of half a mile. Sometimes they was locked up without food for days together. But it’s my belief that little Miss Margaret managed to feed them somehow. Oh, I can see her, creeping to the door and comforting!’
“‘But perhaps she never showed herself when these awful people were here, but took to flight until they left.’
“‘You didn’t never know her, miss. The brave she was! She’d have stood up to lions. She’ve been here all the while: and only to think what her innocent eyes and ears must have took in! There was another couple—’ Mrs. Carkeek sunk her voice.
“‘Oh, hush!’ said I, ‘if I’m to have any peace of mind in this house!’
“‘But you won’t go, miss? She loves you, I know she do. And think what you might be leaving her to—what sort of tenant might come next. For she can’t go. She’ve been here ever since her father sold the place. He died soon after. You musn’t go!’
“Now I had resolved to go, but all of a sudden I felt how mean this resolution was.
“‘After all,’ said I, ‘there’s nothing to be afraid of.’
“‘That’s it, miss; nothing at all. I don’t even believe it’s so very uncommon. Why, I’ve heard my mother tell of farmhouses where the rooms were swept every night as regular as clockwork, and the floors sanded, and the pots and pans scoured, and all while the maids slept. They put it down to the piskies; but we know better, miss, and now we’ve got the secret between us we can lie easy in our beds, and if we hear anything, say “God bless the child!” and go to sleep.’
“‘Mrs. Carkeek,’ said I, ‘there’s only one condition I have to make.’
“‘What’s that?’
“‘Why, that you let me kiss you.’
“‘Oh, you dear!’ said Mrs. Carkeek as we embraced: and this was as close to familiarity as she allowed herself to go in the whole course of my acquaintance with her.
“I spent three years at Tresillack, and all that while Mrs. Carkeek lived with me and shared the secret. Few women, I dare to say, were ever so completely wrapped around with love as we were during those three years. It ran through my waking life like a song: it smoothed my pillow, touched and made my table comely, in summer lifted the heads of the flowers as I passed, and in winter watched the fire with me and kept it bright.
“‘Why did I ever leave Tresillack?’ Because one day, at the end of five years, Farmer Hosking brought me word that he had sold the house—or was about to sell it; I forget which. There was no avoiding it, at any rate; the purchaser being a Colonel Kendall, a brother of the old Squire.’
“‘A married man?’ I asked.
“‘Yes, miss; with a family of eight. As pretty children as ever you see, and the mother a good lady. It’s the old home to Colonel Kendall.’
“‘I see. And that is why you feel bound to sell.’
“‘It’s a good price, too, that he offers. You mustn’t think but I’m sorry enough—’
“‘To turn me out? I thank you, Mr. Hosking; but you are doing the right thing.’
“Since Mrs. Carkeek was to stay, the arrangement lacked nothing of absolute perfection—except, perhaps, that it found no room for me.
“‘She—Margaret-will be happy,’ I said; ‘with her cousins, you know.’
“‘Oh yes, miss, she will be happy, sure enough,’ Mrs. Carkeek agreed.
“So when the time came I packed up my boxes, and tried to be cheerful. But on the last morning, when they stood corded in the hall, I sent Mrs. Carkeek upstairs upon some poor excuse, and stepped alone into the pantry.
“‘Margaret!’ I whispered.
“There was no answer at all. I had scarcely dared to hope for one. Yet I tried again, and, shutting my eyes this time, stretched out both hands and whispered:
“‘Margaret!’
“And I will swear to my dying day that two little hands stole and rested—for a moment only—in mine.”
THE GHOST IN ALL THE ROOMS, by Daniel Defoe
Originally published as part of Essay on the Reality of Apparitions (1727).
A certain person of quality, being with his family at his country seat for the summer season, according to his ordinary custom, was obliged, upon a particular occasion of health, to leave his said seat and go to Aix-la-Chapelle, to use the baths there. This was, it seems, in the month of August, being two months sooner than the usual time of his returning to court for the winter.
Upon thus removing sooner than ordinary he did not then disfurnish the house, as was the ordinary usage of the family, or carry away his plate and other valuable goods, but left his steward and three servants to look after the house. And the padre or parish priest was desired to keep his eye upon them too and to succor them from the village adjoining, if there was occasion.
The steward had no public notice of any harm approaching, but for three or four days successively he had secret strange impulses of dread and terror upon his mind that the house was beset, and was to be assaulted by a troop of banditti, or as we call them here housebreakers, who would murder them all, and after they had robbed the house would set it on fire. And this followe
d him so fast and made such impression upon his mind that he could think of nothing else.
Upon this, the third day he went to the padre or parish priest and made his complaint. Upon which the priest and the steward had the following discourse, the steward beginning thus:
“Father,” said he, “you know what a charge I have in my custody and how my lord has entrusted me with the whole house, and all the rich furniture is standing. I am in great perplexity about it and come to you for your advice.”
Priest: Why, what’s the matter? You have not heard of any mischief threatened, have you?
Steward: No, I have heard nothing. But I have such apprehensions and it has made such impression upon me for these three days that—
Here he told him the particulars of the uneasiness he had been in and added, besides what is said above, that one of the servants had the same and had told him of it, though he had communicated nothing to that servant in the least.
Priest: It may be you dreamed of these things?
Steward: No, indeed, padre! I am sure I could not dream of them, for I could never sleep.
Priest: What can I do for you? What would you have me do?
Steward: I would have you first of all tell me what you think of these things, and whether there is any notice to be taken of them.
The Sixth Ghost Story Megapack Page 14
