forget. Perhaps if I put it down here I may see it in its true
proportion. I worked in the library from about 9 to 10. The hall
and staircase seemed to be unusually full of what I can only call
movement without sound: by this I mean that there seemed to be
continuous going and coming, and that whenever I ceased writing to
listen, or looked out into the hall, the stillness was absolutely
unbroken. Nor, in going to my room at an earlier hour than
usual--about half-past ten--was I conscious of anything that I
could call a noise. It so happened that I had told John to come to
my room for the letter to the bishop which I wished to have
delivered early in the morning at the Palace. He was to sit up,
therefore, and come for it when he heard me retire. This I had for
the moment forgotten, though I had remembered to carry the letter
with me to my room. But when, as I was winding up my watch, I heard
a light tap at the door, and a low voice saying, 'May I come in?'
(which I most undoubtedly did hear), I recollected the fact, and
took up the letter from my dressing-table, saying, 'Certainly: come
in.' No one, however, answered my summons, and it was now that, as
I strongly suspect, I committed an error: for I opened the door and
held the letter out. There was certainly no one at that moment in
the passage, but, in the instant of my standing there, the door at
the end opened and John appeared carrying a candle. I asked him
whether he had come to the door earlier; but am satisfied that he
had not. I do not like the situation; but although my senses were
very much on the alert, and though it was some time before I could
sleep, I must allow that I perceived nothing further of an untoward
character."
With the return of spring, when his sister came to live with him for
some months, Dr. Haynes's entries became more cheerful, and, indeed, no
symptom of depression is discernible unto the early part of September,
when he was again left alone. And now, indeed, there is evidence that he
was incommoded again, and that more pressingly. To this matter I will
return in a moment, but I digress to put in a document which, rightly or
wrongly, I believe to have a bearing on the thread of the story.
The account-books of Dr. Haynes, preserved along with his other papers,
show, from a date but little later than that of his institution as
archdeacon, a quarterly payment of £25 to J.L. Nothing could have been
made of this, had it stood by itself. But I connect with it a very dirty
and ill-written letter, which, like another that I have quoted, was in a
pocket in the cover of a diary. Of date or postmark there is no vestige,
and the decipherment was not easy. It appears to run:
"Dr Sr.
"I have bin expctin to her off you theis last wicks, and not
Haveing done so must supose you have not got mine witch was saying
how me and my man had met in with bad times this season all seems
to go cross with us on the farm and which way to look for the rent
we have no knowledge of it this been the sad case with us if you
would have the great [liberality _probably, but the exact spelling
defies reproduction_] to send fourty pounds otherwise steps will
have to be took which I should not wish. Has you was the Means of
my losing my place with Dr. Pulteney I think it is only just what I
am asking and you know best what I could say if I was Put to it but
I do not wish anything of that unpleasant Nature being one that
always wish to have everything Pleasant about me.
"Your obedt Servt,
"JANE LEE."
About the time at which I suppose this letter to have been written there
is, in fact, a payment of £40 to J.L.
We return to the diary:
"_Oct. 22._--At evening prayers, during the Psalms, I had that same
experience which I recollect from last year. I was resting my hand
on one of the carved figures, as before (I usually avoid that of
the cat now), and--I was going to have said--a change came over it,
but that seems attributing too much importance to what must, after
all, be due to some physical affection in myself: at any rate, the
wood seemed to become chilly and soft as if made of wet linen. I
can assign the moment at which I became sensible of this. The choir
was singing the words (_Set thou an ungodly man to be ruler over
him and_) _let Satan stand at his right hand_.
"The whispering in my house was more persistent tonight. I seemed
not to be rid of it in my room. I have not noticed this before. A
nervous man, which I am not, and hope I am not becoming, would have
been much annoyed, if not alarmed, by it. The cat was on the stairs
tonight. I think it sits there always. There _is_ no kitchen cat.
"_Nov. 15._--Here again I must note a matter I do not understand. I
am much troubled in sleep. No definite image presented itself, but
I was pursued by the very vivid impression that wet lips were
whispering into my ear with great rapidity and emphasis for some
time together. After this, I suppose, I feel asleep, but was
awakened with a start by a feeling as if a hand were laid on my
shoulder. To my intense alarm I found myself standing at the top of
the lowest flight on the first staircase. The moon was shining
brightly enough through the large window to let me see that there
was a large cat on the second or third step. I can make no comment.
I crept up to bed again, I do not know how. Yes, mine is a heavy
burden. [Then follows a line or two which has been scratched out. I
fancy I read something like 'acted for the best.']"
Not long after this it is evident to me that the archdeacon's firmness
began to give way under the pressure of these phenomena. I omit as
unnecessarily painful and distressing the ejaculations and prayers
which, in the months of December and January, appear for the first time
and become increasingly frequent. Throughout this time, however, he is
obstinate in clinging to his post. Why he did not plead ill-health and
take refuge at Bath or Brighton I cannot tell; my impression is that it
would have done him no good; that he was a man who, if he had confessed
himself beaten by the annoyances, would have succumbed at once, and that
he was conscious of this. He did seek to palliate them by inviting
visitors to his house. The result he has noted in this fashion:
"_Jan. 7._--I have prevailed on my cousin Allen to give me a few
days, and he is to occupy the chamber next to mine.
"_Jan. 8._--A still night. Allen slept well, but complained of the
wind. My own experiences were as before: still whispering and
whispering: what is it that he wants to say?
"_Jan. 9._--Allen thinks this is a very noisy house. He thinks,
too, that my cat is an unusually large and fine specimen, but very
wild.
"_Jan. 10._--Allen and I in the library until 11. He left me twice
to see what the maids were doing in the hall: returning the second
time he told me he had seen one of them passing through the door at
the end of the passage, and said if his wife were here she would
soon get them into better order. I asked him what coloured dress
the maid wore; he said grey or white. I supposed it would be so.
"_Jan. 11._--Allen left me today. I must be firm."
These words, _I must be firm_, occur again and again on subsequent days;
sometimes they are the only entry. In these cases they are in an
unusually large hand, and dug into the paper in a way which must have
broken the pen that wrote them.
Apparently the archdeacon's friends did not remark any change in his
behaviour, and this gives me a high idea of his courage and
determination. The diary tells us nothing more than I have indicated of
the last days of his life. The end of it all must be told in the
polished language of the obituary notice:
"The morning of the 26th of February was cold and tempestuous. At
an early hour the servants had occasion to go into the front hall
of the residence occupied by the lamented subject of these lines.
What was their horror upon observing the form of their beloved and
respected master lying upon the landing of the principal staircase
in an attitude which inspired the gravest fears. Assistance was
procured, and an universal consternation was experienced upon the
discovery that he had been the object of a brutal and a murderous
attack. The vertebral column was fractured in more than one place.
This might have been the result of a fall: it appeared that the
stair-carpet was loosened at one point. But, in addition to this,
there were injuries inflicted upon the eyes, nose and mouth, as if
by the agency of some savage animal, which, dreadful to relate,
rendered those features unrecognizable. The vital spark was, it is
needless to add, completely extinct, and had been so, upon the
testimony of respectable medical authorities, for several hours.
The author or authors of this mysterious outrage are alike buried
in mystery, and the most active conjecture has hitherto failed to
suggest a solution of the melancholy problem afforded by this
appalling occurrence."
The writer goes on to reflect upon the probability that the writings of
Mr. Shelley, Lord Byron, and M. Voltaire may have been instrumental in
bringing about the disaster, and concludes by hoping, somewhat vaguely,
that this event may "operate as an example to the rising generation";
but this portion of his remarks need not be quoted in full.
I had already formed the conclusion that Dr. Haynes was responsible for
the death of Dr. Pulteney. But the incident connected with the carved
figure of death upon the archdeacon's stall was a very perplexing
feature. The conjecture that it had been cut out of the wood of the
Hanging Oak was not difficult, but seemed impossible to substantiate.
However, I paid a visit to Barchester, partly with the view of finding
out whether there were any relics of the woodwork to be heard of. I was
introduced by one of the canons to the curator of the local museum, who
was, my friend said, more likely to be able to give me information on
the point than any one else. I told this gentleman of the description of
certain carved figures and arms formerly on the stalls, and asked
whether any had survived. He was able to show me the arms of Dean West
and some other fragments. These, he said, had been got from an old
resident, who had also once owned a figure--perhaps one of those which I
was inquiring for. There was a very odd thing about that figure, he
said. "The old man who had it told me that he picked it up in a
wood-yard, whence he had obtained the still extant pieces, and had taken
it home for his children. On the way home he was fiddling about with it
and it came in two in his hands, and a bit of paper dropped out. This he
picked up and, just noticing that there was writing on it, put it into
his pocket, and subsequently into a vase on his mantelpiece. I was at
his house not very long ago, and happened to pick up the vase and turn
it over to see whether there were any marks on it, and the paper fell
into my hand. The old man, on my handing it to him, told me the story I
have told you, and said I might keep the paper. It was crumpled and
rather torn, so I have mounted it on a card, which I have here. If you
can tell me what it means I shall be very glad, and also, I may say, a
good deal surprised."
He gave me the card. The paper was quite legibly inscribed in an old
hand, and this is what was on it:
"When I grew in the Wood
I was water'd w^{th} Blood
Now in the Church I stand
Who that touches me with his Hand
If a Bloody hand he bear
I councell him to be ware
Lest he be fetcht away
Whether by night or day,
But chiefly when the wind blows high
In a night of February."
"This I dreampt, 26 Febr. A^o 1699. JOHN AUSTIN."
"I suppose it is a charm or a spell: wouldn't you call it something of
that kind?" said the curator.
"Yes," I said, "I suppose one might. What became of the figure in which
it was concealed?"
"Oh, I forgot," said he. "The old man told me it was so ugly and
frightened his children so much that he burnt it."
WHAT WAS IT?
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
It is, I confess, with considerable diffidence that I approach the
strange narrative which I am about to relate. The events which I purpose
detailing are of so extraordinary a character that I am quite prepared
to meet with an unusual amount of incredulity and scorn. I accept all
such beforehand. I have, I trust, the literary courage to face unbelief.
I have, after mature consideration, resolved to narrate, in as simple
and straightforward a manner as I can compass, some facts that passed
under my observation, in the month of July last, and which, in the
annals of the mysteries of physical science, are wholly unparalleled.
I live at No. -- Twenty-sixth Street, in New York. The house is in some
respects a curious one. It has enjoyed for the last two years the
reputation of being haunted. It is a large and stately residence,
surrounded by what was once a garden, but which is now only a green
enclosure used for bleaching clothes. The dry basin of what has been a
fountain, and a few fruit trees ragged and unpruned, indicate that this
spot in past days was a pleasant, shady retreat, filled with fruits and
flowers and the sweet murmur of waters.
The house is very spacious. A hall of noble size leads to a large spiral
staircase winding through its centre, while the various apartments are
of imposing dimensions. It was built some fifteen or twenty years since
by Mr. A----, the well-known New York merchant, who five years ago threw
the commercial world into convulsions by a stupendous bank fraud. Mr.
A----, as every one knows, escaped to Europe, and died not long after,
of a broken heart. Almost immediately after the news of his decease
reached this country and was verified, the report spread in Twenty-sixth
Street that No. -- was haunted. Legal measures had dispossessed the
widow of its former owner, and it was inhabited merely by a caretaker
and his wife, placed there by the house agent into whose hands it had
passed for the purposes of renting or sale. These people declared that
they were troubled with unnatural noises. Doors were opened without any
visible agency. The remnants of furniture scattered through the various
rooms were, during the night, piled one upon the other by unknown hands.
Invisible feet passed up and down the stairs in broad daylight,
accompanied by the rustle of unseen silk dresses, and the gliding of
viewless hands along the massive balusters. The caretaker and his wife
declared they would live there no longer. The house agent laughed,
dismissed them, and put others in their place. The noises and
supernatural manifestations continued. The neighbourhood caught up the
story, and the house remained untenanted for three years. Several
persons negotiated for it; but, somehow, always before the bargain was
closed they heard the unpleasant rumours and declined to treat any
further.
It was in this state of things that my landlady, who at that time kept a
boarding-house in Bleecker Street, and who wished to move further up
town, conceived the bold idea of renting No. -- Twenty-sixth Street.
Happening to have in her house rather a plucky and philosophical set of
boarders, she laid her scheme before us, stating candidly everything she
had heard respecting the ghostly qualities of the establishment to which
she wished to remove us. With the exception of two timid persons,--a
sea-captain and a returned Californian, who immediately gave notice that
they would leave,--all of Mrs. Moffat's guests declared that they would
accompany her in her chivalric incursion into the abode of spirits.
Our removal was effected in the month of May, and we were charmed with
our new residence. The portion of Twenty-sixth Street where our house is
situated, between Seventh and Eighth avenues, is one of the pleasantest
localities in New York. The gardens back of the houses, running down
nearly to the Hudson, form, in the summer time, a perfect avenue of
verdure. The air is pure and invigorating, sweeping, as it does,
straight across the river from the Weehawken heights, and even the
ragged garden which surrounded the house, although displaying on washing
days rather too much clothesline, still gave us a piece of greensward to
look at, and a cool retreat in the summer evenings, where we smoked our
cigars in the dusk, and watched the fireflies flashing their dark
lanterns in the long grass.
Of course we had no sooner established ourselves at No. -- than we began
to expect ghosts. We absolutely awaited their advent with eagerness. Our
dinner conversation was supernatural. One of the boarders, who had
purchased Mrs. Crowe's "Night Side of Nature" for his own private
delectation, was regarded as a public enemy by the entire household for
not having bought twenty copies. The man led a life of supreme
wretchedness while he was reading this volume. A system of espionage was
established, of which he was the victim. If he incautiously laid the
book down for an instant and left the room, it was immediately seized
and read aloud in secret places to a select few. I found myself a person
of immense importance, it having leaked out that I was tolerably well
versed in the history of supernaturalism, and had once written a story
the foundation of which was a ghost. If a table or a wainscot panel
happened to warp when we were assembled in the large drawing-room, there
was an instant silence, and every one was prepared for an immediate
clanking of chains and a spectral form.
After a month of psychological excitement, it was with the utmost
dissatisfaction that we were forced to acknowledge that nothing in the
remotest degree approaching the supernatural had manifested itself. Once
the black butler asseverated that his candle had been blown out by some
invisible agency while he was undressing himself for the night; but as
I had more than once discovered this coloured gentleman in a condition
when one candle must have appeared to him like two, I thought it
possible that, by going a step further in his potations, he might have
reversed this phenomenon, and seen no candle at all where he ought to
have beheld one.
Things were in this state when an accident took place so awful and
inexplicable in its character that my reason fairly reels at the bare
memory of the occurrence. It was the tenth of July. After dinner was
over I repaired, with my friend Dr. Hammond, to the garden to smoke my
evening pipe. Independent of certain mental sympathies which existed
between the Doctor and myself, we were linked together by a vice. We
both smoked opium. We knew each other's secret, and respected it. We
enjoyed together that wonderful expansion of thought, that marvellous
intensifying of the perceptive faculties, that boundless feeling of
existence when we seem to have points of contact with the whole
universe,--in short, that unimaginable spiritual bliss, which I would
not surrender for a throne, and which I hope you, reader, will
never--never taste.
Those hours of opium happiness which the Doctor and I spent together in
secret were regulated with a scientific accuracy. We did not blindly
smoke the drug of paradise, and leave our dreams to chance. While
smoking, we carefully steered our conversation through the brightest and
calmest channels of thought. We talked of the East, and endeavoured to
recall the magical panorama of its glowing scenery. We criticized the
most sensuous poets,--those who painted life ruddy with health, brimming
with passion, happy in the possession of youth and strength and beauty.
If we talked of Shakespeare's "Tempest," we lingered over Ariel, and
avoided Caliban. Like the Guebers, we turned our faces to the East, and
saw only the sunny side of the world.
This skilful colouring of our train of thought produced in our
subsequent visions a corresponding tone. The splendours of Arabian
fairyland dyed our dreams. We paced the narrow strip of grass with the
tread and port of kings. The song of the _rana arborea_, while he clung
to the bark of the ragged plum-tree, sounded like the strains of divine
musicians. Houses, walls, and streets melted like rain clouds, and
vistas of unimaginable glory stretched away before us. It was a
rapturous companionship. We enjoyed the vast delight more perfectly
because, even in our most ecstatic moments, we were conscious of each
other's presence. Our pleasures, while individual, were still twin,
vibrating and moving in musical accord.
On the evening in question, the tenth of July, the Doctor and myself
drifted into an unusually metaphysical mood. We lit our large
meerschaums, filled with fine Turkish tobacco, in the core of which
burned a little black nut of opium, that, like the nut in the fairy
tale, held within its narrow limits wonders beyond the reach of kings;
we paced to and fro, conversing. A strange perversity dominated the
currents of our thought. They would _not_ flow through the sun-lit
channels into which we strove to divert them. For some unaccountable
reason, they constantly diverged into dark and lonesome beds, where a
continual gloom brooded. It was in vain that, after our old fashion, we
flung ourselves on the shores of the East, and talked of its gay
bazaars, of the splendours of the time of Haroun, of harems and golden
palaces. Black afreets continually arose from the depths of our talk,
and expanded, like the one the fisherman released from the copper
vessel, until they blotted everything bright from our vision.
Insensibly, we yielded to the occult force that swayed us, and indulged
in gloomy speculation. We had talked some time upon the proneness of the
human mind to mysticism, and the almost universal love of the terrible,
when Hammond suddenly said to me, "What do you consider to be the
greatest element of terror?"
The question puzzled me. That many things were terrible, I knew.
Stumbling over a corpse in the dark; beholding, as I once did, a woman
floating down a deep and rapid river, with wildly lifted arms, and
awful, upturned face, uttering, as she drifted, shrieks that rent one's
heart while we, spectators, stood frozen at a window which overhung the
river at a height of sixty feet, unable to make the slightest effort to
save her, but dumbly watching her last supreme agony and her
disappearance. A shattered wreck, with no life visible, encountered
floating listlessly on the ocean, is a terrible object, for it suggests
a huge terror, the proportions of which are veiled. But it now struck
me, for the first time, that there must be one great and ruling
embodiment of fear,--a King of Terrors, to which all others must
succumb. What might it be? To what train of circumstances would it owe
its existence?
"I confess, Hammond," I replied to my friend, "I never considered the
subject before. That there must be one Something more terrible than any
other thing, I feel. I cannot attempt, however, even the most vague
definition."
"I am somewhat like you, Harry," he answered. "I feel my capacity to
experience a terror greater than anything yet conceived by the human
mind;--something combining in fearful and unnatural amalgamation
hitherto supposed incompatible elements. The calling of the voices in
Brockden Brown's novel of 'Wieland' is awful; so is the picture of the
Dweller of the Threshold, in Bulwer's 'Zanoni'; but," he added, shaking
his head gloomily, "there is something more horrible still than those."
"Look here, Hammond," I rejoined, "let us drop this kind of talk, for
Heaven's sake! We shall suffer for it, depend on it."
"I don't know what's the matter with me tonight," he replied, "but my
brain is running upon all sorts of weird and awful thoughts. I feel as
if I could write a story like Hoffman, tonight, if I were only master of
a literary style."
"Well, if we are going to be Hoffmanesque in our talk, I'm off to bed.
Opium and nightmares should never be brought together. How sultry it is!
Good night, Hammond."
"Good night, Harry. Pleasant dreams to you."
"To you, gloomy wretch, afreets, ghouls, and enchanters."
We parted, and each sought his respective chamber. I undressed quickly
and got into bed, taking with me, according to my usual custom, a book,
over which I generally read myself to sleep. I opened the volume as soon
as I had laid my head upon the pillow, and instantly flung it to the
other side of the room. It was Goudon's "History of Monsters,"--a
curious French work, which I had lately imported from Paris, but which,
in the state of mind I had then reached, was anything but an agreeable
companion. I resolved to go to sleep at once; so, turning down my gas
until nothing but a little blue point of light glimmered on the top of
the tube, I composed myself to rest.