Tales of terror
your time of life, are you going to allow yourself to be frightened by
a bogey? Shame on you.’
I bucked up, grew bold, and thereupon altered my course, and got into
the high-road again.
There had been a slight improvement in the weather. It had ceased to
rain, but the wind had settled down into a steady gale, and screeched
and screamed over the moorland with a demoniacal fury. The darkness,
however, was not so intense as it was, and a star here and there was
visible through the torn clouds. But it was an eerie sort of night,
and I was strangely impressed with a sense of my loneliness. It was
absolutely unusual for me to feel like this, and I suggested to myself
that my nerves were a little unstrung by overwork and the anxiety
the squire’s illness had caused me. And so I rode on, bowing my head
to the storm, while the mare stepped out well, and I anticipated
that in little more than half an hour I should be snug in bed. As we
got abreast of the haunted mill the mare once more gibbed, and all
but threw me, and again I was struck in the face by the cold clammy
_something_.
I have generally prided myself on being a bold man, but my boldness had
evaporated now, and I almost think my hair rose on end as I observed
that the illuminated corpse was lying in the roadway again; but now it
appeared to be surrounded by a lake of blood. It was the most horrible,
weird, marrow-curdling sight that ever human eyes looked upon. I tried
to urge Princess forward, but she was stricken with terror, and,
wheeling right round, was setting off towards High Lea again. But once
more I was struck in the face by the invisible _something_, and its
coldness and clamminess made me shudder, while there in front of us lay
the corpse in the pool of blood. The mare reared and plunged, but I got
her head round, determining to make a wild gallop for Brinton and leave
the horrors of the haunted mill behind. But the corpse was again in
front of us, and I shrank back almost appalled as the _something_ once
more touched my face.
I cannot hope to describe what my feelings were at this supreme moment.
I don’t believe anything human could have daunted me; but I was
confronted by a supernatural mystery that not only terrified me but the
mare I was riding. Whichever way I turned, that awful, ghastly object
confronted me, and the blow in the face was repeated again and again.
How long I endured the unutterable horrors of the situation I really
don’t know. Possibly the time was measured by brief minutes. It seemed
to me hours. At last my presence of mind returned. I dismounted, and
reasoned with myself that, whatever the apparition was, it had some
import. I soothed the mare by patting her neck and talking to her, and
I determined then to try and find a solution of the mystery. But now a
more wonderful thing happened. The corpse, which was still made visible
by the unearthly light, rose straight up, and as it did so the blood
seemed to flow away from it in great, gurgling streams, for I solemnly
declare that I distinctly heard gurgling sounds. The figure glided
past me, and a sense of extraordinary coldness made me shiver. Slowly
and gracefully the shining corpse glided up the rotting steps of the
old mill, and disappeared through the doorway. No sooner had it gone
than the mill itself seemed to glow with phosphorescent light, and to
become transparent, and I beheld a sight that took my breath away. I
am disposed to think that for some moments my brain became so numbed
that insensibility ensued, for I am conscious of a blank. When the
power of thought returned, I was still holding the bridle of the mare,
and she was cropping the grass at her feet. The mill loomed blackly
against the night sky. It had resumed its normal appearance again. The
wind shrieked about it. The ragged scud raced through the heavens, and
the air was filled with the sounds of the raging wind. At first I was
inclined to doubt the evidence of my own senses. I tried to reason
myself into a belief that my imagination had played me a trick; but I
didn’t succeed, although the mystery was too profound for my fathoming.
So I mounted the mare, urged her to her fastest pace, galloped into
Brinton, and entered my house with a feeling of intense relief.
Thoroughly exhausted by the prolonged physical and mental strain I had
endured, I speedily sank into a deep though troubled slumber as soon as
I got into bed. I was unusually late in rising the next day. I found
that I had no appetite for breakfast. Indeed, I felt ill and out of
sorts; and, though I busied myself with my professional duties, I was
haunted by the strange incidents of the preceding night. Never before
in the whole course of my career had I been so impressed, so unnerved,
and so dispirited. I wanted to believe that I was still as sceptical
as ever, but it was no use. What I had seen might have been unearthly;
but I _had seen it_, and it was no use trying to argue myself out of
that fact. The result was, in the course of the afternoon I called on
my old friend, Mr. Goodyear, who was chief of the county constabulary.
He was a strong-minded man, and, like myself, a hardened sceptic about
all things that smacked of the supernatural.
‘Goodyear,’ I said, ‘I’m out of sorts, and I want you to humour a
strange fancy I have. Bring one of your best men, and come with me to
the haunted mill. But first let me exact from you a pledge of honour
that, if our journey should result in nothing, you will keep the matter
secret, as I am very sensitive to ridicule.’
He looked at me in amazement, and then, as he burst into a hearty
laugh, exclaimed:
‘I say, my friend, you are over-working yourself. It’s time you got a
_locum tenens_, and took a holiday.’
I told him that I agreed with him; nevertheless, I begged him to humour
me, and accompany me to the mill. At last he reluctantly consented to
do so, and an hour later we drove out of the town in my dog-cart. There
were four of us, as I took Peter, my groom, with me. We had provided
ourselves with lanterns, but Goodyear’s man and Peter knew nothing of
the object of our journey.
When we got abreast of the mill I drew up, and giving the reins to
Peter, I alighted, and Goodyear did the same. Taking him on one side,
I said, ‘I have had a vision, and unless I am the victim of incipient
madness we shall find a dead body in the mill.’
The light of the dog-cart was shining full on his face, and I saw the
expression of alarm that my words brought.
‘Look here, old chap,’ he said in a cheery, kindly way, as he put his
arm through mine, ‘you are not going into that mill, but straight home
again. Come, now, get into the cart, and don’t let’s have any more of
this nonsense.’
I felt disposed to yield to him, and had actually placed my foot on
the step to mount, when I staggered back and exclaimed--
‘My God! am I going mad, or is this a reality?’
Once again I had been struck in the face by the cold clammy
_something_; and I saw Goodyear suddenly clap his hand to his face as
he cried out--‘Hullo, what the deuce is that?’
‘Aha,’ I exclaimed exultantly, for I no longer thought my brain was
giving way, ‘you have felt it too?’
‘Well, something cold and nasty-like struck me in the face. A bat, I
expect. Confound ’em.
‘Bats don’t fly at this time of the year,’ I replied.
‘By Jove, no more they do.’
I approached him, and said in a low tone--
‘Goodyear, this is a mystery beyond our solving. I am resolved to go
into that mill.’
He was a brave man, though for a moment or two he hesitated; but on my
insisting he consented to humour me, and so we lit the lantern, and
leaving the groom in charge of the horse and trap, I, Goodyear, and
his man made our way with difficulty up the rotting steps, which were
slimy and sodden with wet. As we entered the mill an extraordinary
scene of desolation and ruin met our gaze as we flashed the light
of the lantern about. In places the floor had broken away, leaving
yawning chasms of blackness. From the mouldering rafters huge festoons
of cobwebs hung. The accumulated dust and dampness of years had given
them the appearance of cords. And oh, how the wind moaned eerily
through the rifts and crannies and broken windows! If ever there was a
place on this earth where evil spirits might dwell it was surely that
ghoul-haunted old mill. The startling aspect of the place impressed us
all, perhaps me more than the other two. We advanced gingerly, for the
floor was so rotten we were afraid it would crumble beneath our feet.
My companions were a little bewildered, I think, and were evidently at
a loss to know what we had come there for. But some strange feeling
impelled me to seek for something; though if I had been asked to
define that something, for the life of me I could not have done it.
Forward I went, however, taking the lead, and holding the lantern above
my head so that its rays might fall afar. But they revealed nothing
save the rotting floor and slimy walls. A ladder led to the upper
storey, and I expressed my intention of mounting it. Goodyear tried to
dissuade me, but I was resolute, and led the way. The ladder was so
creaky and fragile that it was not safe for more than one to be on it
at a time. When I reached the second floor and drew myself up through
the trap, I am absolutely certain I heard a sigh. You may say it was
the wind. I swear it was not. The wind was moaning drearily enough,
but the sigh was a distinctive note, and unmistakable. As I turned the
lantern round so that its light might sweep every hole and corner of
the place, I noticed what seemed to be a sack full of something lying
in a corner. I approached and touched it with my foot, and drew back in
alarm, for touch and sound told me it contained neither corn nor chaff.
I waited until my companions had joined me. Then I said to Goodyear,
‘Unless I am mistaken there is something dreadful in that sack.’
He stooped and placed his hand on the sack, and I saw him start back.
In another moment he recovered himself, and whipping out his knife cut
the string which fastened up the mouth of the sack, and revealed a
human skull with the hair and shrivelled mummified flesh still adhering
to it.
‘Great heavens!’ he exclaimed, ‘here is a human body.’
We held a hurried conversation, and decided to leave the ghastly
thing undisturbed until the morrow. So we scuttled down as fast as we
could, and went home. I did not return to the mill again myself. My
part had been played. Investigation made it absolutely certain that
the mouldering remains were those of poor Charley Royce, and it was
no less absolutely certain that he had been foully murdered. For not
only was there a bullet-hole in the skull, and a bullet inside, but his
throat had been cut. It was murder horrible and damnable. The verdict
of the coroner’s jury pronounced it murder, but there was no evidence
to prove who had done the deed. Circumstances, however, pointed to
Charley’s rival, Silas Hartrop. Was it a guilty conscience that drove
him to drink? And did the Furies who avenge such deeds impel him on
that dark and stormy night in the North Sea to end the torture of his
accursed earthly life? Who can tell? The sea holds its secrets, and
not a scrap of legal evidence could be obtained. But though the law
declined the responsibility of fixing the guilt of the dark deed on
Silas, there was a consensus of opinion that he was the guilty party.
It was a mystery, but the greatest mystery of all was that I, the
sceptic, should have been selected by some supernatural power to be the
instrument for bringing the foul crime to light. For myself, I attempt
no explanation. I have told a true story. Let those who can explain it.
I admit now that ‘there are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamt of in our philosophy.’