Tales of terror
moved by some strange impulse, they all fell upon their knees and
murmured a prayer. Presently, as their self-possession returned, they
rose one by one, and then a feeling of unutterable horror held them
spell bound. Ruth Tudor lay stretched upon the floor, half of her body
under the coffin, her face distorted and horrible, while hanging half
out of the coffin was the now dead body of her resuscitated daughter,
a stream of hot blood flowing from an awful wound in the skull. Ruth
Tudor was also stone dead, and in her hand she still grasped the axe
with which she had battered out the life of her child, who had awakened
from a trance to meet death at the hands of her maniac mother.
The predictions of William Morgan had been literally fulfilled.
XI
A NIGHT OF HORROR
‘Bleak Hill Castle.
‘MY DEAR OLD CHUM,--Before you leave England for the East I claim the
redemption of a promise you made to me some time ago that you would
give me the pleasure of a week or two of your company. Besides, as you
may have already guessed, I have given up the folly of my bachelor
days, and have taken unto myself the sweetest, dearest little woman
that ever walked the face of the earth. We have been married just six
months, and are as happy as the day is long. And then, this place
is entirely after your own heart. It will excite all your artistic
faculties, and appeal with irresistible force to your romantic nature.
To call the building a castle is somewhat pretentious, but I believe
it has been known as the Castle ever since it was built, more than
two hundred years ago. Hester--need I say that Hester is my better
half!--is just delighted with it, and if either of us was in the least
degree superstitious, we might see or hear ghosts every hour of the
day. Of course, as becomes a castle, we have a haunted room, though
my own impression is that it is haunted by nothing more fearsome than
rats. Anyway, it is such a picturesque, curious sort of chamber that
if it hasn’t a ghost it ought to have. But I have no doubt, old chap,
that you will make one of us, for, as I remember, you have always had
a love for the eerie and creepy, and you cannot forget how angry you
used to get with me sometimes for chaffing you about your avowed belief
in the occult and supernatural, and what you were pleased to term
the “unexplainable phenomena of psychomancy.” However, it is possible
you have got over some of the errors of your youth; but whether or
not, come down, dear boy, and rest assured that you will meet with the
heartiest of welcomes.
‘Your old pal,
‘DICK DIRCKMAN.’
* * * * *
The above letter was from my old friend and college chum, who, having
inherited a substantial fortune, and being passionately fond of the
country and country pursuits, had thus the means of gratifying his
tastes to their fullest bent. Although Dick and I were very differently
constituted, we had always been greatly attached to each other. In the
best sense of the term he was what is generally called a hard-headed,
practical man. He was fond of saying he never believed in anything he
couldn’t see, and even that which he could see he was not prepared to
accept as truth without due investigation. In short, Dick was neither
romantic, poetical, nor, I am afraid, artistic, in the literal sense.
He preferred facts to fancies, and was possessed of what the world
generally calls ‘an unimpressionable nature.’ For nearly four years I
had lost sight of my friend, as I had been wandering about Europe as
tutor and companion to a delicate young nobleman. His death had set
me free; but I had no sooner returned to England than I was offered
and accepted a lucrative appointment in the service of his Highness
the Nyzam of Chundlepore, in Northern India, and there was every
probability of my being absent for a number of years.
On returning home I had written to Dick to the chambers he had formerly
occupied, telling him of my appointment, and expressing a fear that
unless we could snatch a day or two in town I might not be able to see
him, as I had so many things to do. It was true I had promised that
when opportunity occurred I should do myself the pleasure of accepting
his oft-proffered hospitality, which I knew to be lavish and generous.
I had not heard of his marriage; his letter gave me the first
intimation of that fact, and I confess that when I got his missive I
experienced some curiosity to know the kind of lady he had succeeded
in captivating. I had always had an idea that Dick was cut out for a
bachelor, for there was nothing of the ladies’ man about him, and he
used at one time to speak of the gentler sex with a certain levity and
brusqueness of manner that by no means found favour with the majority
of his friends. And now Dick was actually married, and living in a
remote region, where most town-bred people would die of ennui.
It will be gathered from the foregoing remarks that I did not hesitate
about accepting Dick’s cordial invitation. I determined to spare a few
days at least of my somewhat limited time, and duly notified Dick to
that effect, giving him the date of my departure from London, and the
hour at which I should arrive at the station nearest to his residence.
Bleak Hill Castle was situated in one of the most picturesque parts of
Wales; consequently, on the day appointed I found myself comfortably
ensconsed in a smoking carriage of a London and North-Western train.
And towards the close of the day--the time of the year was May--I was
the sole passenger to alight at the wayside station, where Dick awaited
me with a smart dog-cart. His greeting was hearty and robust, and when
his man had packed in my traps he gave the handsome little mare that
drew the cart the reins, and we spanked along the country roads in rare
style. Dick always prided himself on his knowledge of horseflesh, and
with a sense of keen satisfaction he drew my attention to the points of
the skittish little mare which bowled along as if we had been merely
featherweights.
A drive of eight miles through the bracing Welsh air so sharpened our
appetites that the smell of dinner was peculiarly welcome; and telling
me to make a hurried toilet, as his cook would not risk her reputation
by keeping a dinner waiting, Dick handed me over to the guidance of a
natty chambermaid. As it was dark when we arrived I had no opportunity
of observing the external characteristics of Bleak Hill Castle; but
there was nothing in the interior that suggested bleakness. Warmth,
comfort, light, held forth promise of carnal delights.
Following my guide up a broad flight of stairs, and along a lofty and
echoing corridor, I found myself in a large and comfortably-furnished
bedroom. A bright wood fire burned upon the hearthstone, for although
it was May the temperature was still very low on the Welsh hills.
Hastily changing my clothes, I made my way to the dining-room, where
Mrs. Dirckman emphasised the welcome her husband had already given
me. She was an exceedingly pretty and rather delicate-looking little
woman, in striking contrast to her great, bluff, burly husband. A few
neighbours had been gathered together to meet me, and we sat down, a
dozen all told, to a dinner that from a gastronomic point of view left
nothing to be desired. The viands were appetising, the wines perfect,
and all the appointments were in perfect consonance with the good
things that were placed before us.
It was perhaps natural, when the coffee and cigar stage had arrived,
that conversation should turn upon our host’s residence, by way of
affording me--a stranger to the district--some information. Of course,
the information was conveyed to me in a scrappy way, but I gathered
in substance that Bleak Hill Castle had originally belonged to a
Welsh family, which was chiefly distinguished by the extravagance and
gambling propensities of its male members. It had gone through some
exciting times, and numerous strange and startling stories had come to
centre round it. There were stories of wrong, and shame, and death,
and more than a suggestion of dark crimes. One of these stories turned
upon the mysterious disappearance of the wife and daughter of a young
scion of the house, whose career had been somewhat shady. His wife
was considerably older than he, and it was generally supposed that
he had married her for money. His daughter, a girl of about twelve,
was an epileptic patient, while the husband and father was a gloomy,
disappointed man. Suddenly the wife and daughter disappeared. At
first no surprise was felt; but, then, some curiosity was expressed
to know where they had gone to; and curiosity led to wonderment, and
wonderment to rumour--for people will gossip, especially in a country
district. Of course, Mr. Greeta Jones, the husband, had to submit to
much questioning as to where his wife and child were staying. But being
sullen and morose of temperament he contented himself by brusquely and
tersely saying, ‘They had gone to London.’ But as no one had seen them
go, and no one had heard of their going, the statement was accepted as
a perversion of fact. Nevertheless, incredible as it may seem, no one
thought it worth his while to insist upon an investigation, and a few
weeks later Mr. Greeta Jones himself went away--and to London, as was
placed beyond doubt. For a long time Bleak Hill Castle was shut up,
and throughout the country side it began to be whispered that sights
and sounds had been seen and heard at the castle which were suggestive
of things unnatural, and soon it became a crystallised belief in men’s
minds that the place was haunted.
On the principle of giving a dog a bad name you have only to couple
ghosts with the name of an old country residence like this castle for
it to fall into disfavour, and to be generally shunned. As might have
been expected in such a region the castle _was_ shunned; no tenant
could be found for it. It was allowed to go to ruin, and for a long
time was the haunt of smugglers. They were cleared out in the process
of time, and at last hard-headed, practical Dick Dirckman heard of the
place through a London agent, went down to see it, took a fancy to
it, bought it for an old song, and, having taste and money, he soon
converted the half-ruined building into a country gentleman’s home, and
thither he carried his bride.
Such was the history of Bleak Hill Castle as I gathered it in outline
during the post-prandial chat on that memorable evening.
On the following day I found the place all that my host had described
it in his letter to me. Its situation was beautiful in the extreme;
and there wasn’t one of its windows that didn’t command a magnificent
view of landscape and sea. He and I rambled about the house, he evinced
a keen delight in showing me every nook and corner, in expatiating
on the beauties of the locality generally, and of the advantages of
his dwelling-place in particular. Why he reserved taking me to the
so-called haunted chamber until the last I never have known; but so
it was; and as he threw open the heavy door and ushered me into the
apartment he smiled ironically and remarked:
‘Well, old man, this is the ghost’s den; and as I consider that a
country mansion of this kind should, in the interests of all tradition
and of fiction writers, who, under the guise of truth, lie like
Ananias, have its haunted room, I have let this place go untouched,
except that I have made it a sort of lumber closet for some antique and
mouldering old furniture which I picked up a bargain in Wardour Street,
London. But I needn’t tell you that I regard the ghost stories as rot.’