“The House and the Brain” has been called by many critics the most
powerful and appalling story of the supernatural ever written in the
English language. It appeared in 1859 in the pages of _Blackwood’s
Magazine_, where it was read by thousands with a fascinated horror.
Sir Edward Hamley said of it: “So elusive is the atmosphere of the
tale, so vivid the description of its terrifying appearances, and so
effective their connection with the agency of a malignant being
possessed of supernatural powers,” that many were half convinced of
its actuality. Soon after its appearance in _Blackwood’s_, a gentleman
wrote to the editor of that magazine: “For God’s sake tell me what
truth there is in this terrible story! My daughter has known no rest
or peace since reading it.”
Its author, Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, was one who, like Scott, felt a
profound interest in the world of mystery. He believed in the occult
powers of nature and in the strange arts of those who sought to use
them. He himself “dived into wizard lore, equipped himself with
magical implements, and communed with mediums and spiritualists.” The
literature of alchemy and divination he studied with intense
eagerness. On one occasion he drew up what he called a “geomantic
figure,” by means of which he foretold the future of Disraeli. This
was before that brilliant personage was seriously regarded by his
associates; yet Bulwer Lytton accurately predicted his coming
political triumphs and the fact that he would be at some day Prime
Minister of England. After his famous ghost-story had appeared in
print, Bulwer Lytton saw that he had given to a short story an idea
too valuable for so slight a treatment. Therefore, when the tale was
subsequently reprinted, he suppressed the second half of it and made
the story end with the discovery of the secret chamber in the haunted
house. The latter part he made the basis of his weird and almost
equally powerful romance of mystery “A Strange Story” which was
published in 1862. This is constructed around the central notion that
there are arts which can indefinitely prolong human life; and in his
book the chief character is the human serpent, Margrave, infinitely
depraved, possessed of supernatural power and renewing his youth by
mystical arts so that he is ever young and capable of fresh evil even
at the end of centuries of his existence. The conception is no less
bold than fascinating, and it is worked out by its author in a
terrifying way. Yet nowhere does it attain to the pitch of horror and
to the power of affecting the human nerves which we find in the
earlier short story of which the original title was “The Haunters and
the Haunted.”
The story as printed here gives the complete text precisely as it was
first published in the pages of _Blackwood’s._
A friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me
one day, as if between jest and earnest, “Fancy! since we last met I
have discovered a haunted house in the midst of London.”
“Really haunted? and by what—ghosts?”
“Well, I can’t answer these questions; all I know is this: six weeks ago
I and my wife were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet
street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, ‘Apartments
Furnished.’ The situation suited us; we entered the house, liked the
rooms, engaged them by the week, and left them the third day. No power
on earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; and I don’t
wonder at it.”
“What did you see?”
“Excuse me; I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitious dreamer,
nor, on the other hand, could I ask you to accept on my affirmation what
you would hold to be incredible, without the evidence of your own
senses. Let me only say this: it was not so much what we saw or heard
(in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our own
excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us
away, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever
we passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither
saw nor heard anything; and the strangest marvel of all was that for
once in my life I agreed with my wife, silly woman though she be, and
allowed after the third night that it was impossible to stay a fourth in
that house.
“Accordingly, on the fourth morning I summoned the woman who kept the
house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quite suit
us, and we would not stay out our week. She said dryly:
“‘I know why; you have stayed longer than any other lodger. Few ever
stayed a second night; none before you a third. But I take it that they
have been very kind to you.’
“‘They—who?’ I asked, affecting a smile.
“‘Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are; I don’t mind them; I
remember them many years ago, when I lived in this house not as a
servant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don’t
care—I’m old and must die soon anyhow; and then I shall be with them,
and in this house still.’
“The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness that really it was a sort of
awe that prevented my conversing with her further. I paid for my week,
and too happy were I and my wife to get off so cheaply.”
“You excite my curiosity,” said I; “nothing I should like better than to
sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which you
left so ignominiously.”
My friend gave me the address; and when we parted I walked straight
toward the house thus indicated.
It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dull but
respectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up; no bill on the
window, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy,
collecting pewter pots at the neighboring areas, said to me, “Do you
want any one at that house, sir?”
“Yes; I heard it was to be let.”
“Let! Why, the woman who kept it is dead; has been dead these three
weeks; and no one can be found to stay there, though Mr. J—— offered
ever so much. He offered mother, who chars for him, one pound a week
just to open and shut the windows, and she would not.”
“Would not! and why?”
“The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in
her bed with her eyes wide open. They say the devil strangled her.”
“Pooh! You speak of Mr. J——. Is he the owner of the house?”
“Yes.”
“Where does he live?”
“In G—— Street, No. —.”
“What is he—in any business?”
“No, sir, nothing particular; a single gentleman.”
I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and
proceeded to Mr. J—— in G—— Street, which was close by the street that
boasted the haunted house. I was lucky enough to find Mr. J—— at home;
an elderly man with intelligent countenance and prepossessing manners.
I communicated my name and my business frankly. I said I heard the house
was considered to be haunted; that I had a strong desire to examine a
house with so equivocal a reputation; that I should be greatly obliged
if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing
to pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask.
“Sir,” said Mr. J——, with great courtesy, “the house is at your service
for as short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the
question; the obligation will be on my side, should you be able to
discover the cause of the strange phenomena which at present deprive it
of all value. I cannot let it, for I cannot even get a servant to keep
it in order or answer the door.
“Unluckily, the house is haunted, if I may use that expression, not only
by night but by day; though at night the disturbances are of a more
unpleasant and sometimes of a more alarming character. The poor old
woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I took out of a
workhouse; for in her childhood she had been known to some of my family,
and had once been in such good circumstances that she had rented that
house of my uncle. She was a woman of superior education and strong
mind, and was the only person I could ever induce to remain in the
house. Indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner’s
inquest, which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, I have so
despaired of finding any person to take charge of it, much more a
tenant, that I would most willingly let it rent free for a year to any
one who would pay its rates and taxes.”
“How long ago did the house acquire this character?”
“That I can scarcely tell you, but many years since; the old woman I
spoke of said it was haunted when she rented it, between thirty and
forty years ago. The fact is that my life has been spent in the East
Indies, and in the civil service of the East India Company.
“I returned to England last year, on inheriting the fortune of an uncle,
among whose possessions was the house in question. I found it shut up
and uninhabited. I was told that it was haunted, and no one would
inhabit it. I smiled at what seemed to me so idle a story.
“I spent some money in repainting and roofing it, added to its
old-fashioned furniture a few modern articles, advertised it, and
obtained a lodger for a year. He was a colonel retired on half pay. He
came in with his family, a son and a daughter, and four or five
servants; they all left the house the next day; and although they
deponed that they had all seen something different, that something was
equally terrible to all. I really could not in conscience sue, or even
blame, the colonel for breach of agreement.
“Then I put in the old woman I have spoken of, and she was empowered to
let the house in apartments. I never had one lodger who stayed more than
three days. I do not tell you their stories; to no two lodgers have
exactly the same phenomena been repeated. It is better that you should
judge for yourself than enter the house with an imagination influenced
by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear something or
other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please.”
“Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?”
“Yes; I passed, not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in
that house. My curiosity is not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no
desire to renew the experiment. You cannot complain, you see, sir, that
I am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest be exceedingly
eager and your nerves unusually strong, I honestly add that I advise you
_not_ to pass a night in that house.”
“My interest _is_ exceedingly keen,” said I; “and though only a coward
will boast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my
nerves have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have the
right to rely on them, even in a haunted house.”
Mr. J—— said very little more; he took the keys of the house out of his
bureau, and gave them to me; and, thanking him cordially for his
frankness and his urbane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize.
Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home I summoned my
confidential servant—a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as
free from superstitious prejudice as any one I could think of.
“F——,” said I, “you remember in Germany how disappointed we were at not
finding a ghost in that old castle which was said to be haunted by a
headless apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I
have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep there
to-night. From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow
itself to be seen or to be heard—something perhaps excessively horrible.
Do you think, if I take you with me, I may rely on your presence of
mind, whatever may happen?”
“Oh, sir; pray trust me!” said he, grinning with delight.
“Very well, then, here are the keys of the house; this is the address.
Go now, select for me any bedroom you please; and since the house has
not been inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire, air the bed well;
see, of course, that there are candles as well as fuel. Take with you my
revolver and my dagger—so much for my weapons—arm yourself equally well;
and it we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall be but a sorry
couple of Englishmen.”
I was engaged for the rest of the day on business so urgent that I had
not leisure to think much on the nocturnal adventure to which I had
plighted my honor. I dined alone and very late, and while dining read,
as is my habit. The volume I selected was one of Macaulay’s essays. I
thought to myself that I would take the book with me; there was so much
of healthfulness in the style, and practical life in the subjects, that
it would serve as an antidote against the influences of superstitious
fancy.
Accordingly, about half-past nine I put the book into my pocket and
strolled leisurely toward the haunted house. I took with me a favorite
dog—an exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier, a dog fond of
prowling about strange ghostly corners and passages at night in search
of rats, a dog of dogs for a ghost.
It was a summer night, but chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and overcast;
still there was a moon—faint and sickly, but still a moon—and if the
clouds permitted, after midnight it would be brighter.
I reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful
smile.
“All right, sir, and very comfortable.”
“Oh!” said I, rather disappointed; “have you not seen nor heard anything
remarkable?”
“Well, sir, I must own that I have heard something queer.”
“What?—what?”
“The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once or twice small noises
like whispers close at my ear; nothing more.”
“You are not at all frightened?”
“I! not a bit of it, sir!”
And the man’s bold look reassured me on one point, namely, that, happen
what might, he would not desert me.
We were in the hall, the street-door closed, and my attention as now
drawn to my dog. He had at first run in eagerly enough, but had sneaked
back to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. After I had
patted him on the head and encouraged him gently, the dog seemed to
reconcile himself to the situation, and followed me and F—— through the
house, but keeping close at my heels, instead of hurrying inquisitively
in advance, which was his usual and normal habit in all strange places.
We first visited the subterranean apartments, the kitchen and other
offices, and especially the cellars, in which last were two or three
bottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, and
evidently, by their appearance, undisturbed for many years. It was clear
that the ghosts were not wine-bibbers.
For the rest, we discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomy
little back-yard, with very high walls. The stones of this yard were
very damp; and what with the damp and what with the dust and smoke-grime
on the pavement, our feet left a slight impression where we passed.
And now appeared the first strange phenomenon witnessed by myself in
this strange abode.
I saw, just before me, the print of a foot suddenly form itself, as it
were. I stopped, caught hold of my servant, and pointed to it. In
advance of that footprint as suddenly dropped another. We both saw it. I
advanced quickly to the place; the footprint kept advancing before me; a
small footprint—the foot of a child; the impression was too faint
thoroughly to distinguish the shape, but it seemed to us both that it
was the print of a naked foot.
This phenomenon ceased when we arrived at the opposite wall, nor did it
repeat itself when we returned. We remounted the stairs and entered the
rooms on the ground floor—a dining-parlor, a small back-parlor, and a
still smaller third room that had probably been appropriated to a
footman—all still as death.
We then visited the drawing-rooms, which seemed fresh and new. In the
front room I seated myself in an armchair. F—— placed on the table the
candlestick with which he had lighted us. I told him to shut the door.
As he turned to do so, a chair opposite to me moved from the wall
quickly and noiselessly, and dropped itself about a yard from my own
chair, immediately fronting it.
“Why, this is better than the turning-tables,” said I laughing; and as I
laughed, my dog put back his head and howled.
F——, coming back, had not observed the movement of the chair. He
employed himself now in stilling the dog. I continued to gaze on the
chair, and fancied I saw on it a pale, blue, misty outline of a human
figure; but an outline so indistinct that I could only distrust my own
vision. The dog was now quiet.
“Put back the chair opposite to me,” said I to F——; “put it back to the
wall.”
F—— obeyed.
“Was that you, sir?” said he, turning abruptly.
“I—what?”
“Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on the shoulder, just
here.”
“No,” said I; “but we have jugglers present, and though we may not
discover their tricks, we shall catch _them_ before they frighten _us_.”
We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms; in fact, they felt so damp
and so chilly that I was glad to get to the fire up-stairs. We locked
the doors of the drawing-rooms—a precaution which, I should observe, we
had taken with all the rooms we had searched below.
The bedroom my servant had selected for me was the best on the floor; a
large one, with two windows fronting the street. The four-posted
bedstead, which took up no inconsiderable space, was opposite to the
fire, which burned clear and bright; a door in the wall to the left,
between the bed and the window, communicated with the room which my
servant appropriated to himself. This last was a small room with a
sofa-bed, and had no communication with the landing-place; no other door
but that which conducted to the bedroom I was to occupy.
On either side of my fireplace was a cupboard, without locks, flush with
the wall, and covered with the same dull-brown paper. We examined these
cupboards; only hooks to suspend female dresses—nothing else. We sounded
the walls; evidently solid—the outer walls of the building.
Having finished the survey of these apartments, warmed myself a few
moments, and lighted my cigar, I then, still accompanied by F——, went
forth to complete my reconnoiter. In the landing-place there was another
door; it was closed firmly.
“Sir,” said my servant in surprise, “I unlocked this door with all the
others when I first came in; it cannot have got locked from the inside,
for it is a——”
Before he had finished his sentence, the door, which neither of us was
then touching, opened quietly of itself. We looked at each other a
single instant. The same thought seized both: some human agency might be
detected here. I rushed in first, my servant followed. A small, blank,
dreary room without furniture, a few empty boxes and hampers in a
corner, a small window, the shutters closed—not even a fireplace—no
other door but that by which we had entered, no carpet on the floor, and
the floor seemed very old, uneven, worm-eaten, mended here and there, as
was shown by the whiter patches on the wood; but no living being, and no
visible place in which a living being could have hidden.
As we stood gazing round, the door by which we had entered closed as
quietly as it had before opened; we were imprisoned.
For the first time I felt a creep of undefinable horror. Not so my
servant.
“Why, they don’t think to trap us, sir; I could break that trumpery door
with a kick of my foot.”
“Try first if it will open to your hand,” said I, shaking off the vague
apprehension that had seized me, “while I open the shutters and see what
is without.”
I unbarred the shutters; the window looked on the little back-yard I
have before described; there was no ledge without, nothing but sheer
descent. No man getting out of that window would have found any footing
till he had fallen on the stones below.
F—— meanwhile was vainly attempting to open the door. He now turned
round to me and asked my permission to use force. And I should here
state, in justice to the servant, that, far from evincing any
superstitious terror, his nerve, composure, and even gaiety amid
circumstances so extraordinary, compelled my admiration and made me
congratulate myself on having secured a companion in every way fitted to
the occasion. I willingly gave him the permission he required. But,
though he was a remarkably strong man, his force was as idle as his
milder efforts; the door did not even shake to his stoutest kick.
Breathless and panting, he desisted. I then tried the door myself,
equally in vain. As I ceased from the effort, again that creep of horror
came over me; but this time it was more cold and stubborn. I felt as if
some strange and ghastly exhalation were rising from the chinks of that
rugged floor and filling the atmosphere with a venomous influence
hostile to human life.
The door now very slowly and quietly opened as of its own accord. We
precipitated ourselves onto the landing-place. We both saw a large, pale
light—as large as the human figure, but shapeless and unsubstantial—move
before us and ascend the stairs that led from the landing into the
attics.
I followed the light, and my servant followed me. It entered, to the
right of the landing, a small garret, of which the door stood open. I
entered in the same instant. The light then collapsed into a small
globule, exceedingly brilliant and vivid; rested a moment on a bed in
the corner, quivered, and vanished.
We approached the bed and examined it—a half-tester, such as is commonly
found in attics devoted to servants. On the drawers that stood near it
we perceived an old faded silk kerchief, with the needle still left in
the rent half repaired. The kerchief was covered with dust; probably it
had belonged to the old woman who had last died there, and this might
have been her sleeping-room.
I had sufficient curiosity to open the drawers; there were a few odds
and ends of female dress, and two letters tied round with a narrow
ribbon of faded yellow. I took the liberty to possess myself of the
letters. We found nothing else in the room worth noticing, nor did the
light reappear; but we distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a pattering
footfall on the floor just before us.
We went through the other attics (in all four), the footfall still
preceding us. Nothing to be seen, nothing but the footfall heard. I had
the letters in my hand; just as I was descending the stairs I distinctly
felt my wrist seized, and a faint, soft effort made to draw the letters
from my clasp. I only held them the more tightly, and the effort ceased.
We regained the bedchamber appropriated to myself, and I then remarked
that my dog had not followed us when we had left it. He was thrusting
himself close to the fire and trembling. I was impatient to examine the
letters; and while I read them my servant opened a little box in which
he had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to bring, took them out,
placed them on a table close at my bed-head, and then occupied himself
in soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very little.
The letters were short; they were dated—the dates exactly thirty-five
years ago. They were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a
husband to some young wife. Not only the terms of expression, but a
distinct reference to a former voyage indicated the writer to have been
a seafarer. The spelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectly
educated; but still the language itself was forcible. In the expressions
of endearment there was a kind of rough, wild love; but here and there
were dark, unintelligible hints at some secret not of love—some secret
that seemed of crime.
“We ought to love each other,” was one of the sentences I remember, “for
how every one else would execrate us if all was known.”
Again: “Don’t let any one be in the same room with you at night—you talk
in your sleep.”
And again: “What’s done can’t be undone; and I tell you there’s nothing
against us, unless the dead should come to life.”
Here was interlined, in a better handwriting (a female’s), “They do!”
At the end of the letter latest in date the same female hand had written
these words:
“Lost at sea the 4th of June, the same day as——”