The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack

by Elliott O'Donnell

  “And yet you don’t drink!”

  “No, I got them in entirely for your benefit. Come. We will go to my house. It’s more comfortable than here. A big fire, nice easy chairs, tobacco, and bottles—bottles with plenty in them.”

  “And you’ve forgiven me, John?”

  “Forgiven you!” John replied, rising from the table and putting on his hat. “Forgiven you! Do you think I should ask you round to my house, to drink the best vintage London can offer you, if I hadn’t? Come. Come along at once.”

  Wilfred rose with some difficulty from his seat, and the two men went out into the street. The scene then changed, and I found myself in a big, gloomy house, following them up a long flight of wooden stairs.

  The moment I entered the house I became the victim of an anomalous species of fear. I saw nothing, but I instinctively knew that strange, indefinable presences were there, watching us with sphinx-like faces. I felt them, standing in the doorways, lurking in the angles of the hall and landings, and peering down at us from over the balustrades. I felt that they were merely critical at present, merely deliberating what attitude they should adopt towards us; and I felt that the whole atmosphere of the house was impregnated with a sense of the utmost mystery—a mystery soluble only to those belonging, in the truest sense, to the spirit world—Neutrarians—spirit entities generated solely from spirit essence and never incarcerated in any material body—spirits initiated into one and all of the idiosyncrasies of spirit land. The man John gave no outward signs of being in any way affected by these presences; but it was otherwise with Wilfred. The silence and darkness of the house unmistakably disturbed him, and as he panted up the staircase, following his long and lean host with none too steady a step, he cast continual looks of apprehension about him. First, I saw him peer over his shoulders, down the stairs behind him, as if he fancied something, to which he could apply no name, might be treading softly at his heels; then I watched his eyes wander nervously to the gloomy space overhead; and then, as if drawn by some extremely unwelcome magnet, to the great, white, sinewy hands of John. Arriving on the second floor, they crossed a broad landing and entered a spacious room, which was fitfully illuminated by a few dying embers in a large open grate. John produced a tinder box, lighted a trio of tall wax candles, and resuscitated the fire. He then left the room, reappearing in a few minutes with an armload of bottles.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Wilfred,” he said. “Take that easy chair and pull it up in front of the fire. Rum or brandy?”

  Wilfred, whose eyes glittered at the sight of the spirits, chose rum. “I’ll have a little brandy afterwards,” he said, “just to wash down the rum. Moderation is my password, John, everything in moderation,” and, helping himself to the rum, he laughed. John sat opposite him, and I noticed, not without some emotion, that the chair he took was the exact counterpart of the one in which I had left my material ego.

  “John,” Wilfred exclaimed after a while, “this house is most extraordinarily still. I—I don’t like such stillness——” He was more than half drunk. “Why do you live alone? Damned silly habit to live alone in a house like this.” Then he swallowed a big gulp of rum and leered.

  “All habits are silly,” John replied. “All life is silly. Death alone is sensible. Death’s a fine thing.”

  Then there was a pause; and a gust of wind, blowing up the staircase, set the door jarring and made the windows rattle.

  “I don’t like that remark of yours, John,” Wilfred suddenly stuttered. “Death’s a fine thing?—Death’s the work of the devil. It’s the only thing I fear. And the—the wind. What’s that?”

  From the hall below there came a gentle slam, the soft closing of a door.

  John shrugged his shoulders and stirred the logs until they gave out a big blaze.

  “It’s a noise,” he said. “This house is full of noises. Every house is full of noises, if only you take the trouble to listen for them.”

  Another pause, and Wilfred helped himself to some brandy.

  “Noises, like women,” he said, “want keeping in their places. They’ve no business wandering about on nights like this. Hark!”

  The faintest sound possible broke the stillness of the house; but it suggested much. To me it was like a light, bounding footfall on the first flight of stairs, those nearest the hall.

  After listening a moment John spoke. “It’s only Jenny,” he said; “at least, I fancy it’s only Jenny. But there are others. God alone knows whence they come or why. The house at times is full of them. So far I have only felt their presence—and heard. Pray to Heaven I may never see them—at least, not some. Do you hear that?”

  There was a gentle rustling on the landing, a swishing, such as might have been caused by someone in a silk dress with a long train.

  “It is—it’s Jenny!” John went on. “I told you—she comes every night.”

  Wilfred made no reply, but the hand that held the glass shook so much that the brandy ran over and splashed on the floor.

  There was again silence, then a creak, the faint but very unmistakable turning of a door handle.

  Wilfred’s face blanched. He tried to look round, but dared not.

  “I’m afraid too,” John murmured, his teeth slightly chattering. “I never can get over my initial terror when she first arrives. God! What horror I have known since I lived here.”

  The latch of the door gave a click, the sort of click it always gives when the door springs open, and a current of icy air blew across the room and fanned the cheeks of both men. Wilfred attempted to speak, but his voice died away in his throat. He glanced at the window. It was closed with heavy wooden shutters.

  “It’s no use,” John sighed, “there’s no escape that way. Make up your mind to face it—face HER. Ah!” He sank back as he spoke and closed his eyes.

  I looked at Wilfred. His vertebrae had totally collapsed; he sat all huddled up in his chair, his weak, watery eyes bulging with terror, and the brandy trickling down his chin on to his cravat. All this scene, I must tell you, was to me most vivid, most acutely vivid, although I was but a passive participator in it. The same feeling that had possessed me on my entrance into the house was with me even in a greater measure now. I felt that pressing on the heels of this wind, this icy blast of air, were the things from the halls and landings, the distractingly enigmatical and ever-deliberating things. I felt them come crowding into the room; felt them once again watching. Something now seemed to go wrong with the wicks of all three candles; they burned very low, and the feeble, flickering light they emitted was of a peculiar bluish white. While I was engaged in pondering over this phenomenon my eye caught a sudden movement in the room, and I saw what looked like a cylindrical pillar of mist sweep across the floor and halt behind John. It remained standing at the back of his chair for a second or so, and then, retracing its way across the floor, disappeared through the door, which, opening wide to meet it, closed again with a loud bang. John opened his eyes and reaching forward poured himself out some brandy.

  “I told you I didn’t drink spirits,” he said, “but her visit to-night has made a difference. Come, Wilfred, pull yourself together. The ghosts—at least her ghost has gone; and as for the others, well, they don’t count. Even you may get used to them in time. Come, come, be a man. For a sceptic, a confirmed sceptic, I never saw anyone so frightened.”

  Appealed to thus, Wilfred slowly straightened himself out, and peeping round furtively at the door, as if to make sure it really was shut, he helped himself to some more brandy. John leaned forward and regarded him earnestly. After some minutes Wilfred spoke.

  “Those candles,” he said, “why don’t they burn properly? I have never seen candles behave in that fashion before. John, I don’t like this house.”

  John laughed. “Matter of taste and habit,” he said. “I didn’t like it at first, but I like
it now.”

  Another pause, and then John said suddenly, “More brandy, Wilfred?”

  “No, I’ve had enough,” Wilfred replied, “enough. John, I must be going home. See me to the door, John; the front door, I mean, John. See me to the door, there’s a good fellow.” He tried to rise, but John put out one hand and pushed him gently back into his seat.

  “It’s early yet,” John said, “far too early to go home. Think what a long time it is since we last met. Ten whole years. To some people almost a lifetime. Are you tired of life, Wilfred?”

  “Tired of life?” Wilfred echoed. “Tired of brandy, perhaps, but not of life. What a question to ask! Why?” And again glancing furtively at the door he tried to rise.

  Once more John put out his hand and thrust him back. “Not yet,” he said; “the hour is far too early. What were we talking about? Being tired of life. Of course you are not. How foolish of me to ask you such a thing! You who are so rich, respected, admired, beloved. You are happy in spite of your sad bereavement. You are a man to be missed. With me it is otherwise. I long to go to the spirit land, for it is there only I have friends, really genuine, loving friends. I am not afraid to die. I want death. I yearn for it. Yearn for it, Wilfred.”

  “Spirits! Death! Always spirits and death in your company,” Wilfred responded. “Let’s talk of something else—something more cheerful. I want cheering, John. This house of yours is depressing—most horribly depressing. You say it is new?”

  “Comparatively new,” John replied, and he started fumbling in his vest pocket.

  “Comparatively new,” Wilfred repeated, his eyes watching John’s fingers attentively,—“and it has ghosts. Why, I thought it was only old houses that were haunted.”

  John chuckled. “So people say,” he replied, “and they tell me I am mad to think there are ghosts here. They say it is impossible. What is your opinion, Wilfred?”

  “Why,” Wilfred said, watching John’s movements with increasing interest, “that’s my opinion too. A house to be haunted must have a history. And this house has none, has it? John!” The last syllable was uttered in an altogether different tone. It was not the voice of a drunken man.

  For a brief moment John hesitated, trembled. He seemed to be in the throes of some great mental strain, some acute psychological crisis. But he speedily overcame it, and drawing his hand out suddenly from his vest, he produced a huge, murderous-looking clasp knife.

  “True!” he said, “true. So far this house has no history. No history whatever. But it will have one, Wilfred. It will.” And baring the blade of his formidable weapon, he crouched low and crept forward.

  * * * *

  The next day I took the chair back to its owner. I had had enough of it—quite enough; and I told him my experiences.

  “Odd!” he said, “very odd. The impressions you received when sitting in the chair are almost identical with those of the other people who have sat in it. I wonder if a murder did actually take place in that house? I shouldn’t be at all surprised. There is an old stain on the floor of one of the rooms on the second landing, and they say that, despite the most vigorous washing, it still retains its colour—red, blood-red.”

  CHAPTER II

  THE HEAD

  A DERBYSHIRE HAUNTING

  Some few years ago, two men were trudging along a road, not twenty miles from Sudbury, swearing heartily. It was not the first time they had sworn, not by any means, but it is extremely doubtful if either of them had ever sworn before quite so vehemently. There were, one must admit, extenuating circumstances. Having missed the last train, they were obliged to walk home, a distance of twelve or more miles, and having been overtaken by a rainstorm, they were soaked to the skin. True, the rain had now ceased, but as they had covered only six miles, they still had six more to go, and at every step they took, the water in their boots soaked through their socks and squished between their toes. Just as they arrived at a spot where the road swerved a little to their left and took a sudden dip, a clock from a distance solemnly chimed twelve.

  The younger of the two men came to a halt and lighted his pipe. “Hold on a minute, Brown,” he shouted; “I can’t keep up this infernal pace any longer. Let’s take an easy.”

  Brown turned and joined his companion, who had seated himself on a wooden gate. Below them, in the dip, the darkness was sepulchral. The hedges on either side the road were of immense height; and high above them rose the trunks of giant pines and larches, the intertwining branches of which formed an archway that completely obliterated the sky. A faint speck of light from afar flickered occasionally, as if through a gap in the foliage; but, apart from this, the men could see nothing—nothing but blackness.

  “A cheerful spot!” Brown remarked, “as gloomy a bit of road as I’ve ever seen. And how quiet!”

  The other man blew his nose. “Not so quiet now,” he laughed, “but how everything echoes! What’s that? Water?”

  Both men looked, and, apparently, from the other side of the hedge, came the gentle gurgle of quick flowing water.

  “Must be a spring,” Brown observed, “flowing into some stream in the hollow. The darkness suggests the Styx. A match, if you please, Reynolds.”

  Reynolds gave him one, and for awhile the two men puffed away in silence.

  Suddenly something whizzed overhead; and they heard the prolonged, dismal hooting of an owl.

  “This is getting a bit too eerie, even for my liking, Brown,” Reynolds remarked; “supposing we move on. I always associate noises like that with a death.”

  “I wish it were my mother-in-law’s,” Brown laughed, “or my own. But there’s no such luck. I’m cold.”

  “So am I,” Reynolds replied. “Deuced cold! Come on, do!”

  He slid off the gate as he spoke and strode into the centre of the road.

  The moon, temporarily unveiled, revealed as wet a landscape as one could possibly imagine. Everything dripped water—bushes, trees, ferns, grass, hats, clothes—whilst every rut of the road, every particle of soil, shone wet in the moon’s rays. A deep, settled calm permeated the atmosphere. It was the stillness of night and moisture combined.

  “What’s the matter? Aren’t you coming?” Brown asked impatiently.

  “One moment,” Reynolds replied. “I believe I heard footsteps. Hark! I thought so, they’re coming this way! Someone else lost their train, perhaps.”

  Brown listened, and he, too, distinctly heard the sound of footsteps—high-heeled shoes walking along with a sharp, springy action, as if the road were absolutely hard and dry.

  “A woman!” he ejaculated. “Odd hour for a woman to be out here.”

  Brown laughed. “Pooh!” he said. “Women are afraid of nothing nowadays except old age. Hullo! Here she comes!”

  As he spoke the figure of a woman—slight and supple, and apparently young—shot into view, and came rapidly towards them.

  Her dress, though quaint and pretty, was not particularly striking; but her feet, clad in patent leather shoes, with buckles that shone brightly in the moonlight, were oddly conspicuous, in spite of the fact that they were small and partially hidden ’neath a skirt which was long and frilled, and not at all in accordance with the present fashion. Something about her prevented both men from speaking, and they involuntarily moved nearer to one another as she approached. On and on she came, tripping along, and never varying her pace. Now in a zone of moonlight, now in the dark belt of shadows from the firs and larches, she drew nearer and nearer. Through the hedge, Brown could dimly perceive the figure of a cow, immensely magnified, standing dumb and motionless, apparently lost, like he was, in spellbound observation. The silence kept on intensifying. Not a breath of air, not a leaf stirring, not a sound from Reynolds, who stood with arms folded like a statue; only the subdued trickle, trickle of the spring, and the hard tap, tap, tap of the flashing, spar
kling shoes.

  At last the woman was abreast of them. They shrank back and back, pressing farther and farther into the hedge, so close that the sharp twigs and brambles scratched their faces and tore their clothes. She passed. Down, down, down, still tripping daintily, until the sepulchral blackness of the dip swallowed her up. They could still hear her tap, tap, tap; and for some seconds neither spoke. Then Reynolds, releasing his clothes from the thorns, muttered huskily: “At last I’ve seen a ghost, and I always scoffed at them.”

  “But her head!” Brown ejaculated, “where was it?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Reynolds replied, his teeth chattering. “She had no head. At least I didn’t see any. Dare you go on?”

  “What, down there?” Brown said, nodding in the direction of the dip.

  “Well, we must, if we are to get home to-night,” Reynolds retorted, “and I’m frozen.”

  “Wait till that noise ceases, then,” Brown answered. “I can’t stand seeing a thing like that twice in one night.”

  They stood still and listened, until the tapping gradually died away in the far distance, and the only sound to be heard was that of the water, the eternal, never ceasing, never varying sound of the water. Then they ran—ran as they had never run since long ago Rugby days—down through the inky darkness of the hollow and out—far out into the brightness of the great stretch of flat country beyond; and, all the time they ran, they neither looked to the right nor to the left, but always on the ground just ahead of them.

  * * * *

  For a week the horror of what they had seen was so great that neither of the two men could bear to be alone in the dark; and they kept a light in their respective rooms all night. Then a strange thing happened. Brown became infatuated, he did nothing but rave, all day, about the ghost. She had the prettiest figure, the whitest hands, the daintiest feet he had ever seen, and he was sure her face must be equally lovely. Why couldn’t he see it? There was nothing about the neck to show she had been decapitated, and yet the head was missing. Why?