Whether I believe in ghosts, fetches, hobgoblins, table spirits, and the
rest of the lights and shades of the supernatural world, is a question
that we will not stop to discuss, but if these pages should meet the eye
of any person who can introduce me to a haunted house, I shall be his
debtor. Now, when I say a haunted house, I must place a few
stipulations upon my acceptance of the said house, so I will at once
state what I want.
I want one of those comfortably (old-fashioned) furnished, quaint,
gabled houses, shut up and deserted on account of supernatural tenants
who will not be evicted; a house sacred to dust, spiders, and silence,
where the damp has crept in here, and the mildew there, where dry rot
and desolation have fixed their abodes, where the owl hoots and the
chimney swallow builds, undisturbed by the cheering fumes of a fire;
where the once trim garden is weed-grown and wild; pedestals overturned;
moss and ivy rampant; fountains choked, and nature having it all her own
way as she has had it for years. That's the sort of place I want to
meet with, one that nobody will take, and when I present myself, the
agent will laugh in his sleeve, and gladly accept me as tenant on lease
for a trivial rent. Yes, the agent will laugh in his sleeve at my folly
in taking the place on lease, and eagerly getting the document prepared
and signed.
But then about the murder once committed in the far chamber--the
noises--the rustling of silk dresses--the groans--the spots on the
floor--the steps along the passages--the opening and closing doors--and
other horrors that have scared people to death? Well, by God's help,
and the exercise of a little observation, and putting of that and that
together, I fancy I could get over those little troubles in time, for if
the released souls of Hades, that once strutted upon this world's stage,
can come back to perform such pitiful duties as to get in table legs and
hats, bang doors, rattle chains, and rustle about o' nights, why e'en
let them; and as I before hinted, I'll try and get used to that part of
the trouble. The birds would still be welcome visitants, for I must own
to a weakness for the feathered tribe, while on their part I can easily
conceive that they would be discriminating in their choice of chimneys;
the mildew and damp must, of course, be ousted, along with the dust and
dry rot, while, as to the spiders and their works, why, much as their
untiring industry and patience must be admired, out they must go too.
And after all said and done, I fancy that a spider deserves a little
better treatment at our hands. As to his character: it is too bad to
associate him with so much craft and insidiousness. Why, what does the
poor thing do but toil hard for its living? and I maintain that friend
Arachne is as reputable a member of insect society as the much-vaunted
busy bee.
"Oh!" some one will say; "but look at the nasty murdering thing and the
poor flies struggling in its net, while the dear bees live upon nectar
and honey!"
Who killed and murdered most wilfully all those poor unfortunate
chuckle-headed drones this summer, eh?
But to my haunted house once more. What a crusade against rats and
mice--what inspecting of old furniture--and sending this to the
lumber-room, and that to be polished and rubbed up--what choosing of
suitable new objects, and fitting up the old-fashioned rooms again,
mingling just enough of the modern to add to the comfort of the old,
without destroying its delicious quaintness. For I like an old house,
with its crooks and corners, and bo-peep passages, and closets, and
steps, and ins and outs, wainscots, old pictures, and memories of the
past. Why, no one with a thinking apparatus of his own can be dull in
such a place for calling up the scenes of the past, and trying to trace
the old place's history.
Then, again, the garden. How glorious to leave to nature her beauties,
and only take away the foul and rank; cutting back here and rescuing
there, and bringing the neglected place into a charming wilderness--a
place that nature has robbed of its old formal primness, and, setting
art at defiance, made it her own.
Yes, if some one will kindly put me in the way of getting such a place
for a residence I shall be his or her debtor, while for recompense, as
soon as ever matters have been a bit seen to, and the place is
habitable, they shall have the honour of first sleeping in the most
haunted room in the house.
This is, I am well aware, a very choice kind of house, but that there
are such places every one is aware, and my story is to be about one of
these old man-forsaken spots, that years ago existed in Hertfordshire.
I say years ago existed, for though the house still stands, it is in a
dreadfully modernised form. Wings were pulled down, wainscotings torn
out, and the place so altered that a tenant was found, and the haunters
so disgusted with their home that the noises ceased, and the old
reputation was forgotten.
I write this story as it was told to me by a friend, in whose word I
have faith sufficient to vouch for the truth of what he heard.
There was an old legend attached to the place, something relating to the
right of possession, and some one coming home to oust the then holder of
the estate; then followed midnight murder, the concealment of the deed,
and, as 'tis said, the spirits of the murderer and murdered haunted the
scene of the dread deed.
Be that as it may, family after family took the house and left in a very
short time. Strange noises were heard, strange stories got about the
village; servants at first could only be sent from one room to another
in twos or threes for mutual protection. Jane fell down in a fit; Mary
was found staring, with her eyes fixed on nothingness, and her mouth
wide open; Betsey was lost, but afterwards found in the best bedroom,
with the whole of her person buried beneath the clothes, when she
struggled and screamed horribly at their being dragged off; cooks Number
1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 used to go about after dark with their aprons over
their heads; Mary Hann would not sleep alone; Thomas said nothing, but
took to wearing his hair standing on end like quills upon the fretful
etcetera, or better still, in this case, like a hedgehog; and all ended
by giving notice one after the other, so fast, that at last it came to a
fresh servant reaching the village, hearing the character of the house,
and then going back without even testing the place, for, like a
snowball, the horrors said to abound, increased at a fearful ratio when
slipping glibly off Rumour's many tongues. At last the house stood
empty year after year. The agent who was empowered to let it did his
best. House-hunters came, looked at it, asked questions, and then,
after a few inquiries, house-hunters went, and the house stood empty,
when, as season after season passed, the forlorn aspect of the place
became worse; the paint peeled off the window frames; the gutters
rotted; green mould settled upon the doors; grass grew up between the
steps; while the large slab was raised right out of its place by a
growth of fungus; idle boys threw stones at the windows, and then ran
for their lives; shutters became loose and flapped about; while neglect
and ruin were everywhere, and the house was said to be more haunted than
ever.
Fortunately, The Grange was the property of a wealthy man, who did not
feel the loss of the rent, and as time wore on the place was known as
"The Harnted House," and no attempt was made to let it, so that it
became at last almost untenable.
At length a new agent came to the neighbouring town, and after a few
months' stay his curiosity became aroused, and being a quiet sensible
fellow, he talked to first one acquaintance and then another, heard the
story of the haunted house from different sources, and the upstart was,
that a party of half a dozen, of whom my friend was one, agreed to sit
up with the agent in the ghostly place, and try and investigate the
matter, so as to place the strange rumours in a better light if
possible.
The night fixed upon came, and well provided with creature comforts, the
party adjourned to the Grange; Mr Hemson, the agent, having been in the
afternoon, and seen that a supply of fuel was placed ready, and at the
same time had all he could done towards making what had evidently been a
little breakfast-room comfortable.
On reaching the hall door the snow was falling heavily, while a sad
moaning wind swept round the house, and blew the large flakes in the
unwonted visitors' faces. Dreary and dismal looked the old Elizabethan
Grange, and more than one of the venturesome party felt a shiver--
perhaps of cold--pass through him as a large key was thrust into the
lock, and with a groan the door turned upon its hinges.
Mr Hemson had brought with him a bull's-eye dark lanthorn, and now
turning it on, the party found themselves in a small square hall with a
wide staircase in front, and about three doors on either side. All
looked gloomy and weird, while a sensation of chill fell upon one and
all as they passed across the earthy-smelling place, followed Mr Hemson
down a few stairs to the right, and then stood in the little
breakfast-room, where a few sparks yet remained of the large fire that
had been lit.
Every man had come loaded and ready for passing a cold winter's night in
the forsaken house; and soon candles were lit, a large fire was roaring
up the chimney, and a cloth having been spread over an old table, spirit
bottles, glasses, lemons, and sugar, all tended towards making the room
a little more cheering, while, in spite of dust and cobwebs, there was
some very good furniture about the place.
"Choose wood-seat chairs, gentlemen," said Mr Hemson, "for everything
is terribly damp."
The advice was followed, after closing the shutters, and bringing down a
cloud of dust in the performance.
Glasses round became the order of the night, and whether for the sake of
getting Dutch courage or not, I cannot say, but Hollands gin was a
favoured spirit. After this refresher, candles were trimmed, the
lanthorn turned on, and beginning with the cellars, a careful
investigation of the place was made, walls were tapped, fastenings
tried, shutters shaken, and all perfectly satisfied that no one but
themselves was in or could gain entrance to the place. Go where they
would, there was the same dull, damp, mephitic odour; dust and cobwebs,
and mildew everywhere.
But for these traces of the lapse of time, the place might have been
left but a few weeks or months. The rooms were well-furnished, good
carpets were down, the library shelves were full of books, and ornaments
upon the chimney-pieces. In the drawing-room was an old square
pianoforte, while from every wall gloomy and dark faces looked down upon
the intruders. And thus the tour of the house was completed, not a
closet even being left unscanned, while as they left each room the keys
were turned, and at length, joking and laughing, they returned to the
comparatively snug room, and assembled round the fire.
"Now," said my friend, "presuming that we have come here to listen for
the strange sounds that are heard, what course are we to adopt in the
event of anything taking our attention?"
"Not much fear," laughed one.
"Then let's have a little smoke and a song," said another.
"But really," said Mr Hemson, "I think we ought to do something,
gentlemen; for mind you, I for one fully expect that we shall hear some
strange noise, and what I want is for us to find out what it is, and see
if we can't stop it for the future."
"Did you bring any holy water, Hemson?" said one of the party.
"Come, come, gentlemen," said my friend, "business, business. Now, I
tell you what: we will all sit here and of course the first man who
thinks he hears a sound will advise the others, when we will all go
together and try and find out what it was, but in silence, mind. No man
is to speak till we get back to this room, when here is paper and you
have, most of you, pencils; let each man write down what impression that
which he has seen and heard made upon him, writing it down in as few
words as possible, and so we can compare impressions, and there will not
be, as is often the case, one person modelling his ideas upon those of
another."
"Very good; I second that," said Mr Hemson, while, after a few remarks,
first one and then another agreed that the plan would be excellent.
Ten--eleven struck by the old church-clock, and the wind roared round
the old place, rumbling in the chimney and sending the snow with soft
pats up against the window-panes, so that more than once a member of the
party started and looked round, but the warm glow of the fire, the
social cheer, and perhaps, more than all, the spirits, tended to drive
away any dread that might otherwise have taken possession of those
present, and the night wore on.
Twelve struck by the old church-clock, and the wind lulled.
"Now is the witching--what's the rest of it?" said one of the party.
"Ah," said another, "now's the ghostly time."
"Don't you wish you were at home, Hemson?" said another.
"Not I," said the agent. "I'm perfectly cool, so far."
"Well, I'm not," said the first speaker, "for my shins are scorching."
"Pass the kettle this way," said my friend, "and--"
"Hush!" exclaimed Mr Hemson, and a dead silence fell upon the group.
"Well, what is it?" said my friend, holding his glass to the
kettle-spout.
"I fancied I heard a noise," said Mr Hemson, while all listened
attentively.
"Pooh," said my friend; "the wind," and he then filled up his glass and
placed it upon the table, but the next moment he started up.
"Well, what now?" said Mr Hemson.
"Didn't you hear that?" exclaimed my friend.
"No, what?" said Mr Hemson.
"Why that noise--there!" he exclaimed, and now every man started to his
feet, having distinctly heard some sounds proceeding from the direction
of the hall.
"Hush, be quiet," whispered Mr Hemson, hastily examining his lanthorn.
"Now then, follow me," and all hastily passed up the few steps and stood
in the hall listening to the sound as of some one talking in the room
right in front--the dining-room.
The hall was quite dark save where the light from the breakfast-parlour
shone out and cast a long streak upon the dining-room door, while there,
each man holding his breath, and armed as they were with stout
walking-sticks, pokers, or whatever came to their reach, the party stood
listening as the loud utterance of some voice reached their ears,
succeeded by various noises, as if there were some occupant of the room.
"Now then," whispered Mr Hemson, "are you all ready?"
"Yes," was the whispered response.
Mr Hemson turned on his dark lanthorn, almost with one movement turned
key and handle, threw open the door, and as every man rushed in, the
light was flashed all over the room, but no one was visible. There
stood the old-fashioned dining-room chairs formally against the walls,
the pictures looked down grimly, the wine cooler beneath the sideboard
yawned gloomily and black, but nothing more could be seen; not even a
chair was out of place, though every eye was now directed to a large
closet in one corner.
"Come along, gentlemen," said Mr Hemson, and he swung the door of the
empty closet open.
"But the table cover," whispered my friend, pointing to the large
dust-covered cloth, whose corners touched the floor.
To whisk off the great pall-like cloth from the long dining-table was
but the work of an instant, and then the light was flashed beneath the
table; but nothing save a cloud of penetrating dust rewarded the
searchers, who then stood, pale and puzzled, looking at one another,
till Mr Hemson proposed an adjournment to the little room, where, after
carefully locking the dining-room door, they retook their places, every
man feeling uncomfortable and put out.
But attention was soon drawn by my friend to the arrangement agreed
upon, when pencils were eagerly seized, and for a quarter of an hour not
a word was spoken, when the last man laid down his pencil.
"Has every man signed his name?" asked my friend.
This caused another trifling delay, for no man had placed his name at
the bottom of his manuscript; but this being done, the first man's paper
was read over. It was, of course, very brief, but to the effect that,
while standing in the hall, he had heard the sound as of a man talking
to himself in a wild, agitated manner; that it seemed that a book was
thrown hastily down upon the table by some one, who then hurriedly
pushed his chair back, so that it scraped along the floor, while at the
same time the table gave way and cracked audibly. Then followed the
hurried pacing of some one up and down the room, till the door was
thrown open and all became silent.
"Precisely what I have stated," exclaimed Mr Hemson.
"Mine is almost word for word the same," cried my friend; while, with
trifling exceptions, the narratives of the other watchers tallied.
Rather pale and uncomfortable, the party now eat talking in whispers,
starting at every loud gust of wind or loud pat of snow upon the window,
while the rattling of casement or door was enough to send a shiver
through the stoutest man present. But as the night wore on and nothing
more alarming was heard, first one and then another dropped off to
sleep, though the majority sat watching till the cold grey light of the
winter's morning dawned; and then, after another glance at the
dining-room, now looking more weird than ever as seen by the light
streaming through the round, eye-like holes in the window shutters, the
party gladly left the house, and doubtless made the best of their way to
bed.
Now, I make no defence of this story, for I have placed it upon paper in
much the same form that it was told to me. What the noise was that the
convivial watchers heard I cannot say, but though I consider my
informant worthy of credence, and though it was singular that the
impression made on all was the same, yet I cannot help thinking that the
best thing to imbibe while sitting up o' night is tea.