_No. 1—The Haunted and the Haunters; or, The House and the Brain_
_By_ BULWER LYTTON
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 that question; all I know is this: six weeks ago
my wife and I 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 indefinable 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 strange 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 they have been very kind
to you.’
“‘They—who?’ I asked, affecting to smile.
“‘Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. I do not 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 my wife and I 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 at 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, £1 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 potboy 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 the house, much more a tenant, that
I would willingly let it rent free for a year to anyone who would pay its
rates and taxes.”
“How long is it since the house acquired the sinister character?”
“That I can scarcely tell you, but very 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 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, that no one would inhabit it. I smiled at what
seemed to me so idle a story. I spent some money in repairing it, added
to its old-fashioned furniture a few modern articles—advertised it, and
obtained a lodger for a year. He was a colonel 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 each of them declared that
he had seen something different from that which had scared the others,
a something still was equally terrible to all. I really could not in
conscience sue, nor 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 there
been exactly the same phenomena 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 advice 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, 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 anyone 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 tonight.
From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow itself to
be seen or 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,” answered F⸺, 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 if
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. I selected one of the volumes 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.