Tales of terror
I did not reply to my friend at once, for the room absorbed my
attention. It was unquestionably the largest of the bedrooms in
the house, and, while in keeping with the rest of the house, had
characteristics of its own. The walls were panelled with dark oak, the
floor was oak, polished. There was a deep V-shaped bay, formed by an
angle of the castle, and in each side of the bay was a diamond-paned
window, and under each window an oak seat, which was also a chest
with an ancient iron lock. A large wooden bedstead with massive
hangings stood in one corner, and the rest of the furniture was of a
very nondescript character, and calls for no special mention. In a
word, the room was picturesque, and to me it at once suggested the
_mise-en-scène_ for all sorts of dramatic situations of a weird and
eerie character. I ought to add that there was a very large fireplace
with a most capacious hearthstone, on which stood a pair of ponderous
and rusty steel dogs. Finally, the window commanded superb views, and
altogether my fancy was pleased, and my artistic susceptibilities
appealed to in an irresistible manner, so that I replied to my friend
thus:
‘I like this room, Dick, awfully. Let me occupy it, will you?’
He laughed.
‘Well, upon my word, you are an eccentric fellow to want to give up the
comfortable den which I have assigned to you for this mouldy, draughty,
dingy old lumber room. However’--here he shrugged his shoulders--‘there
is no accounting for tastes, and as this is liberty hall, my friends do
as they like; so I’ll tell the servants to put the bed in order, light
a fire, and cart your traps from the other room.’
I was glad I had carried my point, for I frankly confess to having
romantic tendencies. I was fond of old things, old stories and legends,
old furniture, and anything that was removed above the dull level of
commonplaceness. This room, in a certain sense, was unique, and I was
charmed with it.
When pretty little Mrs. Dirckman heard of the arrangements she said,
with a laugh that did not conceal a certain nervousness, ‘I am sorry
you are going to sleep in that wretched room. It always makes me
shudder, for it seems so uncomfortable. Besides, you know, although
Dick laughs at me and calls me a little goose, I am inclined to
believe there may be some foundation for the current stories. Anyway,
I wouldn’t sleep in the room for a crown of gold. I do hope you will
be comfortable, and not be frightened to death or into insanity by
gruesome apparitions.’
I hastened to assure my hostess that I should be comfortable enough,
while as for apparitions, I was not likely to be frightened by them.
The rest of the day was spent in exploring the country round about,
and after a _recherché_ dinner Dick and I played billiards until one
o’clock, and then, having drained a final ‘peg,’ I retired to rest.
When I reached the haunted chamber I found that much had been done to
give an air of cheerfulness and comfort to the place. Some rugs had
been laid about the floor, a modern chair or two introduced, a wood
fire blazed on the hearth. On a little ‘occasional table’ that stood
near the fire was a silver jug, filled with hot water, and an antique
decanter containing spirits, together with lemon and sugar, in case
I wanted a final brew. I could not but feel grateful for my host and
hostess’s thoughtfulness, and, having donned my dressing-gown and
slippers, I drew a chair within the radius of the wood fire’s glow, and
proceeded to fill my pipe for a few whiffs previous to tumbling into
bed. This was a habit of mine--a habit of years and years of growth,
and, while perhaps an objectionable one in some respects, it afforded
me solace and conduced to restful sleep. So I lit my pipe, and fell to
pondering and trying to see if I could draw any suggestiveness as to my
future from the glowing embers. Suddenly a remarkable thing happened.
My pipe was drawn gently from my lips and laid upon the table, and at
the same moment I heard what seemed to me to be a sigh. For a moment or
two I felt confused, and wondered whether I was awake or dreaming. But
there was the pipe on the table, and I could have taken the most solemn
oath that to the best of my belief it had been placed there by unseen
hands.
My feelings, as may be imagined, were peculiar. It was the first time
in my life that I had ever been the subject of a phenomenon which was
capable of being attributed to supernatural agency. After a little
reflection, and some reasoning with myself, however, I tried to believe
that my own senses had made a fool of me, and that in a half-somnolent
and dreamy condition I had removed the pipe myself, and placed it on
the table. Having come to this conclusion I divested myself of my
clothing, extinguished the two tall candles, and jumped into bed.
Although usually a good sleeper, I did not go to sleep at once, as was
my wont, but lay thinking of many things, and mingling with my changing
thoughts was a low, monotonous undertone--nature’s symphony--of booming
sea on the distant beach, and a bass piping--rising occasionally to
a shrill and weird upper note--of the wind. From its situation the
house was exposed to every wind that blew, hence its name ‘Bleak Hill
Castle,’ and probably a south-east gale would have made itself felt
to an uncomfortable degree in this room, which was in the south-east
angle of the building. But now the booming sea and wind had a lullaby
effect, and my nerves sinking into restful repose I fell asleep. How
long I slept I do not know, and never shall know; but I awoke suddenly,
and with a start, for it seemed as if a stream of ice-cold water was
pouring over my face. With an impulse of indefinable alarm I sprang up
in bed, and then a strange, awful, ghastly sight met my view.
I don’t know that I could be described as a nervous man in any sense of
the word. Indeed, I think I may claim to be freer from nerves than the
average man, nor would my worst enemy, if he had a regard for truth,
accuse me of lacking courage. And yet I confess here, frankly, that the
sight I gazed upon appalled me. Yet was I fascinated with a horrible
fascination, that rendered it impossible for me to turn my eyes away.
I seemed bound by some strange weird spell. My limbs appeared to have
grown rigid; there was a sense of burning in my eyes; my mouth was
parched and dry; my tongue swollen, so it seemed. Of course, these were
mere sensations, but they were sensations I never wish to experience
again. They were sensations that tested my sanity. And the sight that
held me in the thrall was truly calculated to test the nerves of the
strongest.
There, in mid-air, between floor and ceiling, surrounded or made
visible by a trembling, nebulous light, that was weird beyond the power
of any words to describe, was the head and bust of a woman. The face
was paralysed into an unutterably awful expression of stony horror; the
long black hair was tangled and dishevelled, and the eyes appeared to
be bulging from the head. But this was not all. Two ghostly hands were
visible. The fingers of one were twined savagely in the black hair, and
the other grasped a long-bladed knife, and with it hacked, and gashed,
and tore, and stabbed at the bare white throat of the woman, and the
blood gushed forth from the jagged wounds, reddening the spectre hand
and flowing in one continuous stream to the oak floor, where I heard
it drip, drip, drip until my brain seemed as if it would burst, and I
felt as if I was going raving mad. Then I saw with my strained eyes
the unmistakable sign of death pass over the woman’s face; and next,
the devilish hands flung the mangled remnants away, and I _heard_ a
low chuckle of satisfaction--heard, I say, and swear it, as plainly
as I have ever heard anything in this world. The light had faded; the
vision of crime and death had gone, and yet the spell held me. Although
the night was cold, I believe I was bathed in perspiration. I think
I tried to cry out--nay, I am sure I did--but no sound came from my
burning, parched lips; my tongue refused utterance; it clove to the
roof of my mouth. Could I have moved so much as a joint of my little
finger, I could have broken the spell; at least, such was the idea that
occupied my half-stunned brain. It was a nightmare of waking horror,
and I shudder now, and shrink within myself as I recall it all. But the
revelation--for revelation it was--had not yet reached its final stage.
Out of the darkness was once more evolved a faint, phosphorescent glow,
and in the midst of it appeared the dead body of a beautiful girl with
the throat all gashed and bleeding, the red blood flowing in a crimson
flood over her night-robe, which only partially concealed her young
limbs; and the cruel, spectral hands, dyed with her blood, appeared
again, and grasped her, and lifted her, and bore her along. Then that
vision faded, and a third appeared. This time I seemed to be looking
into a gloomy, damp, arched cave or cellar, and the horror that froze
me was intensified as I saw the hands busy preparing a hole in the wall
at one end of the cave; and presently they lifted two bodies--the body
of the woman, and the body of the young girl--all gory and besmirched;
and the hands crushed them into the hole in the wall, and then
proceeded to brick them up.
All these things I saw as I have described them, and this I solemnly
swear to be the truth as I hope for mercy at the Supreme Judgment.
It was a vision of crime; a vision of merciless, pitiless, damnable
murder. How long it all lasted I don’t know. Science has told us that
dreams which seem to embrace a long series of years, last but seconds;
and in the few moments of consciousness that remain to the drowning man
his life’s scroll is unrolled before his eyes. This vision of mine,
therefore, may only have lasted seconds, but it seemed to me hours,
years, nay, an eternity. With that final stage in the ghostly drama
of blood and death, the spell was broken, and flinging my arms wildly
about, I know that I uttered a great cry as I sprang up in bed.
‘Have I been in the throes of a ghastly nightmare?’ I asked myself.
Every detail of the horrific vision I recalled, and yet somehow it
seemed to me that I had been the victim of a hideous nightmare. I felt
ill; strangely ill. I was wet and clammy with perspiration, and nervous
to a degree that I had never before experienced in my existence.
Nevertheless, I noted everything distinctly. On the hearthstone there
was still a mass of glowing red embers. I heard the distant booming of
the sea, and round the house the wind moaned with a peculiar, eerie,
creepy sound.
Suddenly I sprang from the bed, impelled thereto by an impulse I was
bound to obey, and by the same impulse I was drawn towards the door.
I laid my hand on the handle. I turned it, opened the door, and gazed
into the long dark corridor. A sigh fell upon my ears. An unmistakable
human sigh, in which was expressed an intensity of suffering and sorrow
that thrilled me to the heart. I shrank back, and was about to close
the door, when out of the darkness was evolved the glowing figure of
a woman clad in blood-stained garments and with dishevelled hair. She
turned her white corpse-like face towards me, and her eyes pleaded with
a pleading that was irresistible, while she pointed the index finger
of her left hand downwards, and then beckoned me. Then I followed
whither she led. I could no more resist than the unrestrained needle
can resist the attracting magnet. Clad only in my night apparel, and
with bare feet and legs, I followed the spectre along the corridor,
down the broad oak stairs, traversing another passage to the rear of
the building until I found myself standing before a heavy barred door.