echoing corridor, I found myself in a large and comfortably-furnished
bedroom. A bright wood fire burned upon the hearthstone, for although
it was May the temperature was still very low on the Welsh hills.
Hastily changing my clothes, I made my way to the dining-room, where
Mrs. Dirckman emphasised the welcome her husband had already given
me. She was an exceedingly pretty and rather delicate-looking little
woman, in striking contrast to her great, bluff, burly husband. A few
neighbours had been gathered together to meet me, and we sat down, a
dozen all told, to a dinner that from a gastronomic point of view left
nothing to be desired. The viands were appetising, the wines perfect,
and all the appointments were in perfect consonance with the good
things that were placed before us.
It was perhaps natural, when the coffee and cigar stage had arrived,
that conversation should turn upon our host’s residence, by way of
affording me--a stranger to the district--some information. Of course,
the information was conveyed to me in a scrappy way, but I gathered
in substance that Bleak Hill Castle had originally belonged to a
Welsh family, which was chiefly distinguished by the extravagance and
gambling propensities of its male members. It had gone through some
exciting times, and numerous strange and startling stories had come to
centre round it. There were stories of wrong, and shame, and death,
and more than a suggestion of dark crimes. One of these stories turned
upon the mysterious disappearance of the wife and daughter of a young
scion of the house, whose career had been somewhat shady. His wife
was considerably older than he, and it was generally supposed that
he had married her for money. His daughter, a girl of about twelve,
was an epileptic patient, while the husband and father was a gloomy,
disappointed man. Suddenly the wife and daughter disappeared. At
first no surprise was felt; but, then, some curiosity was expressed
to know where they had gone to; and curiosity led to wonderment, and
wonderment to rumour--for people will gossip, especially in a country
district. Of course, Mr. Greeta Jones, the husband, had to submit to
much questioning as to where his wife and child were staying. But being
sullen and morose of temperament he contented himself by brusquely and
tersely saying, ‘They had gone to London.’ But as no one had seen them
go, and no one had heard of their going, the statement was accepted as
a perversion of fact. Nevertheless, incredible as it may seem, no one
thought it worth his while to insist upon an investigation, and a few
weeks later Mr. Greeta Jones himself went away--and to London, as was
placed beyond doubt. For a long time Bleak Hill Castle was shut up,
and throughout the country side it began to be whispered that sights
and sounds had been seen and heard at the castle which were suggestive
of things unnatural, and soon it became a crystallised belief in men’s
minds that the place was haunted.
On the principle of giving a dog a bad name you have only to couple
ghosts with the name of an old country residence like this castle for
it to fall into disfavour, and to be generally shunned. As might have
been expected in such a region the castle _was_ shunned; no tenant
could be found for it. It was allowed to go to ruin, and for a long
time was the haunt of smugglers. They were cleared out in the process
of time, and at last hard-headed, practical Dick Dirckman heard of the
place through a London agent, went down to see it, took a fancy to
it, bought it for an old song, and, having taste and money, he soon
converted the half-ruined building into a country gentleman’s home, and
thither he carried his bride.
Such was the history of Bleak Hill Castle as I gathered it in outline
during the post-prandial chat on that memorable evening.
On the following day I found the place all that my host had described
it in his letter to me. Its situation was beautiful in the extreme;
and there wasn’t one of its windows that didn’t command a magnificent
view of landscape and sea. He and I rambled about the house, he evinced
a keen delight in showing me every nook and corner, in expatiating
on the beauties of the locality generally, and of the advantages of
his dwelling-place in particular. Why he reserved taking me to the
so-called haunted chamber until the last I never have known; but so
it was; and as he threw open the heavy door and ushered me into the
apartment he smiled ironically and remarked:
‘Well, old man, this is the ghost’s den; and as I consider that a
country mansion of this kind should, in the interests of all tradition
and of fiction writers, who, under the guise of truth, lie like
Ananias, have its haunted room, I have let this place go untouched,
except that I have made it a sort of lumber closet for some antique and
mouldering old furniture which I picked up a bargain in Wardour Street,
London. But I needn’t tell you that I regard the ghost stories as rot.’
I did not reply to my friend at once, for the room absorbed my
attention. It was unquestionably the largest of the bedrooms in
the house, and, while in keeping with the rest of the house, had
characteristics of its own. The walls were panelled with dark oak, the
floor was oak, polished. There was a deep V-shaped bay, formed by an
angle of the castle, and in each side of the bay was a diamond-paned
window, and under each window an oak seat, which was also a chest
with an ancient iron lock. A large wooden bedstead with massive
hangings stood in one corner, and the rest of the furniture was of a
very nondescript character, and calls for no special mention. In a
word, the room was picturesque, and to me it at once suggested the
_mise-en-scène_ for all sorts of dramatic situations of a weird and
eerie character. I ought to add that there was a very large fireplace
with a most capacious hearthstone, on which stood a pair of ponderous
and rusty steel dogs. Finally, the window commanded superb views, and
altogether my fancy was pleased, and my artistic susceptibilities
appealed to in an irresistible manner, so that I replied to my friend
thus:
‘I like this room, Dick, awfully. Let me occupy it, will you?’
He laughed.
‘Well, upon my word, you are an eccentric fellow to want to give up the
comfortable den which I have assigned to you for this mouldy, draughty,
dingy old lumber room. However’--here he shrugged his shoulders--‘there
is no accounting for tastes, and as this is liberty hall, my friends do
as they like; so I’ll tell the servants to put the bed in order, light
a fire, and cart your traps from the other room.’
I was glad I had carried my point, for I frankly confess to having
romantic tendencies. I was fond of old things, old stories and legends,
old furniture, and anything that was removed above the dull level of
commonplaceness. This room, in a certain sense, was unique, and I was
charmed with it.
When pretty little Mrs. Dirckman heard of the arrangements she said,
with a laugh that did not conceal a certain nervousness, ‘I am sorry
you are going to sleep in that wretched room. It always makes me
shudder, for it seems so uncomfortable. Besides, you know, although
Dick laughs at me and calls me a little goose, I am inclined to
believe there may be some foundation for the current stories. Anyway,
I wouldn’t sleep in the room for a crown of gold. I do hope you will
be comfortable, and not be frightened to death or into insanity by
gruesome apparitions.’
I hastened to assure my hostess that I should be comfortable enough,
while as for apparitions, I was not likely to be frightened by them.
The rest of the day was spent in exploring the country round about,
and after a _recherché_ dinner Dick and I played billiards until one
o’clock, and then, having drained a final ‘peg,’ I retired to rest.
When I reached the haunted chamber I found that much had been done to
give an air of cheerfulness and comfort to the place. Some rugs had
been laid about the floor, a modern chair or two introduced, a wood
fire blazed on the hearth. On a little ‘occasional table’ that stood
near the fire was a silver jug, filled with hot water, and an antique
decanter containing spirits, together with lemon and sugar, in case
I wanted a final brew. I could not but feel grateful for my host and
hostess’s thoughtfulness, and, having donned my dressing-gown and
slippers, I drew a chair within the radius of the wood fire’s glow, and
proceeded to fill my pipe for a few whiffs previous to tumbling into
bed. This was a habit of mine--a habit of years and years of growth,
and, while perhaps an objectionable one in some respects, it afforded
me solace and conduced to restful sleep. So I lit my pipe, and fell to
pondering and trying to see if I could draw any suggestiveness as to my
future from the glowing embers. Suddenly a remarkable thing happened.
My pipe was drawn gently from my lips and laid upon the table, and at
the same moment I heard what seemed to me to be a sigh. For a moment or
two I felt confused, and wondered whether I was awake or dreaming. But
there was the pipe on the table, and I could have taken the most solemn
oath that to the best of my belief it had been placed there by unseen
hands.
My feelings, as may be imagined, were peculiar. It was the first time
in my life that I had ever been the subject of a phenomenon which was
capable of being attributed to supernatural agency. After a little
reflection, and some reasoning with myself, however, I tried to believe
that my own senses had made a fool of me, and that in a half-somnolent
and dreamy condition I had removed the pipe myself, and placed it on
the table. Having come to this conclusion I divested myself of my
clothing, extinguished the two tall candles, and jumped into bed.
Although usually a good sleeper, I did not go to sleep at once, as was
my wont, but lay thinking of many things, and mingling with my changing
thoughts was a low, monotonous undertone--nature’s symphony--of booming
sea on the distant beach, and a bass piping--rising occasionally to
a shrill and weird upper note--of the wind. From its situation the
house was exposed to every wind that blew, hence its name ‘Bleak Hill
Castle,’ and probably a south-east gale would have made itself felt
to an uncomfortable degree in this room, which was in the south-east
angle of the building. But now the booming sea and wind had a lullaby
effect, and my nerves sinking into restful repose I fell asleep. How
long I slept I do not know, and never shall know; but I awoke suddenly,
and with a start, for it seemed as if a stream of ice-cold water was
pouring over my face. With an impulse of indefinable alarm I sprang up
in bed, and then a strange, awful, ghastly sight met my view.
I don’t know that I could be described as a nervous man in any sense of
the word. Indeed, I think I may claim to be freer from nerves than the
average man, nor would my worst enemy, if he had a regard for truth,
accuse me of lacking courage. And yet I confess here, frankly, that the
sight I gazed upon appalled me. Yet was I fascinated with a horrible
fascination, that rendered it impossible for me to turn my eyes away.
I seemed bound by some strange weird spell. My limbs appeared to have
grown rigid; there was a sense of burning in my eyes; my mouth was
parched and dry; my tongue swollen, so it seemed. Of course, these were
mere sensations, but they were sensations I never wish to experience
again. They were sensations that tested my sanity. And the sight that
held me in the thrall was truly calculated to test the nerves of the
strongest.
There, in mid-air, between floor and ceiling, surrounded or made
visible by a trembling, nebulous light, that was weird beyond the power
of any words to describe, was the head and bust of a woman. The face
was paralysed into an unutterably awful expression of stony horror; the
long black hair was tangled and dishevelled, and the eyes appeared to
be bulging from the head. But this was not all. Two ghostly hands were
visible. The fingers of one were twined savagely in the black hair, and
the other grasped a long-bladed knife, and with it hacked, and gashed,
and tore, and stabbed at the bare white throat of the woman, and the
blood gushed forth from the jagged wounds, reddening the spectre hand
and flowing in one continuous stream to the oak floor, where I heard
it drip, drip, drip until my brain seemed as if it would burst, and I
felt as if I was going raving mad. Then I saw with my strained eyes
the unmistakable sign of death pass over the woman’s face; and next,
the devilish hands flung the mangled remnants away, and I _heard_ a
low chuckle of satisfaction--heard, I say, and swear it, as plainly
as I have ever heard anything in this world. The light had faded; the
vision of crime and death had gone, and yet the spell held me. Although
the night was cold, I believe I was bathed in perspiration. I think
I tried to cry out--nay, I am sure I did--but no sound came from my
burning, parched lips; my tongue refused utterance; it clove to the
roof of my mouth. Could I have moved so much as a joint of my little
finger, I could have broken the spell; at least, such was the idea that
occupied my half-stunned brain. It was a nightmare of waking horror,
and I shudder now, and shrink within myself as I recall it all. But the
revelation--for revelation it was--had not yet reached its final stage.
Out of the darkness was once more evolved a faint, phosphorescent glow,
and in the midst of it appeared the dead body of a beautiful girl with
the throat all gashed and bleeding, the red blood flowing in a crimson
flood over her night-robe, which only partially concealed her young
limbs; and the cruel, spectral hands, dyed with her blood, appeared
again, and grasped her, and lifted her, and bore her along. Then that
vision faded, and a third appeared. This time I seemed to be looking
into a gloomy, damp, arched cave or cellar, and the horror that froze
me was intensified as I saw the hands busy preparing a hole in the wall
at one end of the cave; and presently they lifted two bodies--the body
of the woman, and the body of the young girl--all gory and besmirched;
and the hands crushed them into the hole in the wall, and then
proceeded to brick them up.
All these things I saw as I have described them, and this I solemnly
swear to be the truth as I hope for mercy at the Supreme Judgment.
It was a vision of crime; a vision of merciless, pitiless, damnable
murder. How long it all lasted I don’t know. Science has told us that
dreams which seem to embrace a long series of years, last but seconds;
and in the few moments of consciousness that remain to the drowning man
his life’s scroll is unrolled before his eyes. This vision of mine,
therefore, may only have lasted seconds, but it seemed to me hours,
years, nay, an eternity. With that final stage in the ghostly drama
of blood and death, the spell was broken, and flinging my arms wildly
about, I know that I uttered a great cry as I sprang up in bed.
‘Have I been in the throes of a ghastly nightmare?’ I asked myself.
Every detail of the horrific vision I recalled, and yet somehow it
seemed to me that I had been the victim of a hideous nightmare. I felt
ill; strangely ill. I was wet and clammy with perspiration, and nervous
to a degree that I had never before experienced in my existence.
Nevertheless, I noted everything distinctly. On the hearthstone there
was still a mass of glowing red embers. I heard the distant booming of
the sea, and round the house the wind moaned with a peculiar, eerie,
creepy sound.
Suddenly I sprang from the bed, impelled thereto by an impulse I was
bound to obey, and by the same impulse I was drawn towards the door.
I laid my hand on the handle. I turned it, opened the door, and gazed
into the long dark corridor. A sigh fell upon my ears. An unmistakable
human sigh, in which was expressed an intensity of suffering and sorrow
that thrilled me to the heart. I shrank back, and was about to close
the door, when out of the darkness was evolved the glowing figure of
a woman clad in blood-stained garments and with dishevelled hair. She
turned her white corpse-like face towards me, and her eyes pleaded with
a pleading that was irresistible, while she pointed the index finger
of her left hand downwards, and then beckoned me. Then I followed
whither she led. I could no more resist than the unrestrained needle
can resist the attracting magnet. Clad only in my night apparel, and
with bare feet and legs, I followed the spectre along the corridor,
down the broad oak stairs, traversing another passage to the rear of
the building until I found myself standing before a heavy barred door.
At that moment the spectre vanished, and I retraced my steps like one
who walked in a dream. I got back to my bedroom, but how I don’t quite
know; nor have I any recollection of getting into bed. Hours afterwards
I awoke. It was broad daylight. The horror of the night came back to me
with overwhelming force, and made me faint and ill. I managed, however,
to struggle through with my toilet, and hurried from that haunted room.
It was a beautifully fine morning. The sun was shining brightly, and
the birds carolled blithely in every tree and bush. I strolled out on
to the lawn, and paced up and down. I was strangely agitated, and asked
myself over and over again if what I had seen or dreamed about had any
significance.
Presently my host came out. He visibly started as he saw me.
‘Hullo, old chap. What’s the matter with you?’ he exclaimed. ‘You look
jolly queer; as though you had been having a bad night of it.’
‘I have had a bad night.’
His manner became more serious and grave.
‘What--seen anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘The deuce! You don’t mean it, really!’
‘Indeed I do. I have gone through a night of horror such as I could not
live through again. But let us have breakfast first, and then I will
try and make you understand what I have suffered, and you shall judge
for yourself whether any significance is to be attached to my dream, or
whatever you like to call it.’
We walked, without speaking, into the breakfast room, where my charming
hostess greeted me cordially; but she, like her husband, noticed my
changed appearance, and expressed alarm and anxiety. I reassured her by
saying I had had a rather restless night, and didn’t feel particularly
well, but that it was a mere passing ailment. I was unable to partake
of much breakfast, and both my good friend and his wife again showed
some anxiety, and pressed me to state the cause of my distress. As I
could not see any good cause that was to be gained by concealment,
and even at the risk of being laughed at by my host, I recounted the
experience I had gone through during the night of terror.
So far from my host showing any disposition to ridicule me, as I quite
expected he would have done, he became unusually thoughtful, and
presently said:
‘Either this is a wild phantasy of your own brain, or there is
something in it. The door that the ghost of the woman led you to is
situated on the top of a flight of stone steps, leading to a vault
below the building, which I have never used, and have never even had
the curiosity to enter, though I did once go to the bottom of the
steps; but the place was so exceedingly suggestive of a tomb that I
mentally exclaimed, “I’ve no use for this dungeon,” and so I shut it
up, bolted and barred the door, and have never opened it since.’
I answered that the time had come when he must once more descend into
that cellar or vault, whatever it was. He asked me if I would accompany
him, and, of course, I said I would. So he summoned his head gardener,
and after much searching about, the key of the door was found; but even
then the door was only opened with difficulty, as lock and key alike
were foul with rust.
As we descended the slimy, slippery stone steps, each of us carrying a
candle, a rank, mouldy smell greeted us, and a cold noisome atmosphere
pervaded the place. The steps led into a huge vault, that apparently
extended under the greater part of the building. The roof was arched,
and was supported by brick pillars. The floor was the natural
earth, and was soft and oozy. The miasma was almost overpowering,
notwithstanding that there were ventilating slits in the wall in
various places.
We proceeded to explore this vast cellar, and found that there was an
air shaft which apparently communicated with the roof of the house;
but it was choked with rubbish, old boxes, and the like. The gardener
cleared this away, and then, looking up, we could see the blue sky
overhead.
Continuing our exploration, we noted that in a recess formed by the
angle of the walls was a quantity of bricks and mortar. Under other
circumstances this would not, perhaps, have aroused our curiosity or
suspicions. But in this instance it did; and we examined the wall
thereabouts with painful interest, until the conviction was forced
upon us that a space of over a yard in width, and extending from floor
to roof, had recently been filled in. I was drawn towards the new
brickwork by some subtle magic, some weird fascination. I examined it
with an eager, critical, curious interest, and the thoughts that passed
through my brain were reflected in the faces of my companions. We
looked at each other, and each knew by some unexplainable instinct what
was passing in his fellow’s mind.
‘It seems to me we are face to face with some mystery,’ remarked Dick,
solemnly. Indeed, throughout all the years I had known him I had
never before seen him so serious. Usually his expression was that of
good-humoured cynicism, but now he might have been a judge about to
pronounce the doom of death on a red-handed sinner.
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘there is a mystery, unless I have been tricked by
my own fancy.’
‘Umph! it is strange,’ muttered Dick to himself.
‘Well, sir,’ chimed in the gardener, ‘you know there have been some
precious queer stories going about for a long time. And before you come
and took the place plenty of folks round about used to say they’d seen
some uncanny sights. I never had no faith in them stories myself; but,
after all, maybe there’s truth in ’em.’
Dick picked up half a brick and began to tap the wall with it where the
new work was, and the taps gave forth a hollow sound, quite different
from the sound produced when the other parts of the wall were struck.
‘I say, old chap,’ exclaimed my host, with a sorry attempt at a smile,
‘upon my word, I begin to experience a sort of uncanny kind of
feeling. I’ll be hanged if I am not getting as superstitious as you
are.’
‘You may call me superstitious if you like, but either I have seen what
I have seen, or my senses have played the fool with me. Anyway, let us
put it to the test.’
‘How?’
‘By breaking away some of that new brickwork.’
Dick laughed a laugh that wasn’t a laugh, as he asked:
‘What do you expect to find?’ I hesitated what to say, and he added
the answer himself--‘Mouldering bones, if your ghostly visitor hasn’t
deceived you.’
‘Mouldering bones!’ I echoed involuntarily.
‘Gardener, have you got a crowbar amongst your tools?’ Dick asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Go up and get it.’
The man obeyed the command.
‘This is a strange sort of business altogether,’ Dick continued, after
glancing round the vast and gloomy cellar. ‘But, upon my word, to tell
you the truth, I’m half ashamed of myself for yielding to anything like
superstition. It strikes me that you’ll find you are the victim of a
trick of the imagination, and that these bogey fancies of yours have
placed us in rather a ridiculous position.’
In answer to this I could not possibly resist reminding Dick that even
scientists admitted that there were certain phenomena--they called them
‘natural phenomena’--that could not be accounted for by ordinary laws.
Dick shrugged his shoulders and remarked with assumed indifference:
‘Perhaps--perhaps it is so.’ He proceeded to fill his pipe with
tobacco, and having lit it he smoked with a nervous energy quite
unusual with him.