THE HOUSE ON THE HILL
In beginning this chapter I find myself facing a dilemma--one not
so puzzling as that which gave Hamlet pause, and evoked his famous
soliloquy, and yet like it, too, in that it forces me to hesitate
before the mystery of the Unseen. Thus far my story has the support of
incontrovertible facts and permanent and referable legal and criminal
records; I must now cut loose from these, and trust my weight upon
the assertion that the last half of my narrative, which I now launch
upon, is in every detail and particular as true as the first. In
the stress of the responsibility thus assumed it might seem natural
to marshall about me such facts and persons as I might invoke as
corroborative witnesses. Of these there are not a few:--but although
there is (sometimes) "wisdom in a multitude of counsellors," conviction
in the actuality of truth in narrations of so-called "supernatural"
phenomena is as likely as otherwise to be befogged in exact proportion
to the size of their "cloud of witnesses." Therefore I have, after
reflection, decided to "take the stand" myself and unsupported, and to
throw myself upon the mercy of the court--my readers--in so doing.
* * * * *
Thus, then, I shall not reveal the exact location of The House on the
Hill, nor the name of the owner, from whom, for a year, I rented it.
It is doubtful that he be now living, for he was a man of advanced age
when he left his house in my hands, and departed with his two unmarried
daughters (themselves of mature years) for a twelve-months' tour in
Europe. On his return I handed him the keys without any reference to
the strange occurrences that had come to me from my bargaining with
him:--nor do I know to this day whether he had similar experiences
after my departure, or even whether they may have enlivened him and
his family prior to my tenancy. His evident anxiety to lease the house
for a time (I took it furnished, and at a rental absurdly low--in
fact, just one-half his original demand) may have had no special
significance, although I often fancied afterwards that I had found a
reason for it:--but on consideration I decided not to refer to certain
features of the house that he had failed to enumerate as among its
attractions, and to restore him without remark to their renewal--if he
knew of them--or to discover them for himself--if he did not.
It is probable that few of my readers have spent a year in a "haunted
house"--I use this expression, although it defines nothing, for want
of a better:--but those who cherish such an experience will understand
why, on the one hand, I did not wish to alarm an elderly gentleman and
his amiable daughters, or "give a bad name," as the saying is, to his
property; and why, on the other, I did not care to run the risk of
living in his recollection, and in the minds of his neighbors to whom
he might relate my story, as a person of feeble intellect, if not a
lunatic outright. But I would give a good deal to know what _he_ knew
about that house.
A circumstance that I took no note of at the time, but which afterwards
seemed to have a possible significance, occurred at the house one
evening when I had called to complete negotiations by signing the lease
and going through other formalities precedent to taking possession.
The owner had told me that one of his reasons for desiring a change of
scene for a time was that his wife had died three months before after a
lingering illness that had completely worn out his daughters as well
as himself:--and when the business of his final evening was completed,
the younger woman uttered this strange remark:--"Well, it will be a
relief not to see mother about all the time!"--and was immediately
checked by her sister. I had before noted her as a nervous-mannered,
somewhat anæmic-looking person, and her observation touched my mind too
lightly to leave any impression upon it.
* * * * *
There was nothing at all peculiar in the appearance of the house. It
stood upon a breezy hill-top in the outskirts of one of Melbourne's
most attractive suburbs; the train from town landed me, every evening,
at the village station, and a ten-minute walk up a rather steep road
brought me comfortably to home and dinner. The house was a delightful
one when you got to it. It occupied a corner lot, and had extensive
grounds around it; there was a large orchard at the rear, filled with
grape-vines, and pear, lemon, and fig trees--although none of them did
much in the matter of bearing. There were two trees in the front yard
that gave profusely of pomegranates (a decorative fruit, but one whose
edible qualities always seemed to me greatly overrated); there were
spacious flower beds on both sides of the building, and the nearest
neighbors were at least two hundred yards away. On the other side of
the street which ran in front of the house was a large, unimproved lot
which gave a touch of the country by the presence in it of several
ancient gum trees, in which the "laughing jackasses" cackled and
vociferated both morning and evening:--and when my wife and I, and the
gentleman of Scottish ancestry and of advanced middle-age, whom, as our
best of friends, we had induced to share the enterprise with us, looked
about upon these things on the first afternoon of our occupancy, we
pronounced them all "very good."
The house was not a large one, comprising six living-rooms and a
kitchen, besides a bath and a commodious storeroom and pantry. It was
of the bungalow pattern, a type which is a favorite one in Australia,
where the high average temperature of the year makes coolness and
airiness prime essentials in a dwelling. It had no cellar, but was
raised above the ground upon brickwork, thus forming a dry air-chamber
below, and above its single story was a low, unfinished attic, which
afforded another air-space, and stretched without partitions from
front to back of the house. There was no floor to this attic, and
on the only occasion when I explored it, I had to crawl from beam to
beam, the pointed roof being so low that I could barely stand upright
even under its ridgepole. The only means of access to this part of the
house was a ladder, which could be brought into the bathroom, and from
which could be raised a light trap-door in the ceiling. A veranda ran
along the front of the house, and a wide hall extended, without turn or
obstruction, from front to back. On one side of this hall--beginning
from the veranda--were the parlor, dining-room, bedroom, and pantry;
on the other, my wife's bedroom, the bathroom, our friend's room, a
"spare-room," and the kitchen:--while a few yards behind the house
stood a one-story structure, fitted up as a laundry. The "spare-room"
here mentioned I furnished as a smoking-room; and further equipped it
by building a bench across the space before the single window, whereat
I employed myself now and then in preparing the skins of birds of which
I was making a collection, and which I either shot myself in frequent
excursions into the country, or which were sent to me by agents, both
whites and "blackfellows," whom I employed in various parts of the
Colonies.
One, and perhaps the most peculiar, feature of the bungalow remains
to be described. This was a small apartment, about five feet square,
between the bathroom and our friend's room (but without any means of
direct communication with either), and entered only by a narrow door
which swung outward into the hall. It was unlighted, and was provided
with air by a ventilator at the end of a shaft which was carried
through the ceiling into the attic and ended in the roof. Its floor
was of thickly-laid concrete, and in its centre, and occupying nearly
the whole ground space, was a sunken portion about two feet deep,
and equipped with wooden racks upon which boxes of butter, pans of
milk, and various receptacles containing similar perishable articles
of food were accommodated. This chamber was of real use in a country
where--at the time at least--ice was scarce and expensive, and where
summer temperatures of a hundred and ten degrees in the shade might be
expected; since, being placed in a part of the house which was wholly
removed from the direct rays of the sun, the air in it was always cool
and dry. I am particular in describing this room because of a strange
incident that later occurred in it.
The house was well, almost luxuriously, furnished. The parlor
contained a fine piano, and several pictures of merit adorned the
walls; heat (seldom necessary in that mild climate except on rainy
days in autumn and winter) was furnished to this and other rooms
by open fireplaces, and vases and other _bric-a-brac_ stood upon
the mantels; the bed and table linen was all of excellent quality,
there was a sufficiency of crockery and glass and silverware and
culinary utensils:--and as we sat down to our inauguratory dinner, and
contrasted our condition with the three years' previous experience
of travel and steamer and hotel life in all parts of Australia, New
Zealand, Tasmania and the Fiji Islands, we congratulated each other
that we had found a "home" indeed.
We set about forthwith to improve our temporary property. On one side
of the house, and separated from it by a fence that inclosed the
lawn and flower gardens, was a grassy "paddock" that might formerly
have pastured a horse or a cow. As we had no use for either of these
animals, we turned this space into a poultry yard, and populated it
with chickens, ducks and geese--which thrived amazingly, and in due
time furnished us all the eggs and poultry required for our table.
Our friend (by nature and early training an ardent horticulturist,
but whose energies in that science had for many years enjoyed no
opportunity for exercise in the soil of the Melbourne Stock Exchange,
of which he was a member) joyously took the flower gardens under his
control, and achieved miracles therein. It was delightful, as I sat
in the shady veranda on the hot Saturday afternoons, with a steamer
chair to loll in, and a pipe and cooling drink at hand, to contemplate
his enthusiasm as he delved and sweated to prepare new ground for the
gorgeous blooms which he coaxed from the willing soil--at the same time
extolling my own sagacity in asking him to share the place with us; to
which he would respond in appropriate language. Our household was so
small that we were not exposed to the annoyances of the "servant-girl"
problem:--our friend and I lunched in town, and a capable woman who
lived nearby assisted my wife in cooking and serving our dinners,
and attended to the duties of house-cleaning--returning to her own
home when her work was accomplished, and leaving us to ourselves in
the evenings. We were near enough to town to run in for theatres and
concerts whenever we were so minded, and on Sundays did some modest
entertaining:--in short, we settled into a phase of existence as
nearly Arcadian as is often possible under modern conditions of
civilization, and although it seemed likely to be commonplace and
uneventful, we were in mood to find it all the more desirable and
pleasant on that account. That the most startling experiences of our
lives were soon to come upon us never entered our heads, and for some
six weeks we lived in serenity and happiness amid surroundings that day
by day grew more attractive.