THE SCREAMING SKULL.
"Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall,
Its chambers desolate, its portals foul;
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall--
The dome of thought, the palace of the soul."
BYRON.
There are told of certain houses, in different parts of the country,
many weird skull stories, the popular idea being that if any profane
hand should be bold enough to remove, or in any way tamper with, such
gruesome relics of the dead, misfortune will inevitably overtake the
family. Hence, for years past, there have been carefully preserved in
some of our country homes numerous skulls, all kinds of romantic
traditions accounting for their present isolated and unburied
condition.
An old farmstead known as Bettiscombe, near Bridport, Dorsetshire, has
long been famous for its so-called "screaming skull," generally
supposed to be that of a negro servant who declared before his death
that his spirit would not rest until his body was buried in his native
land. But, contrary to his dying wish, he was interred in the
churchyard of Bettiscombe, and hence the trouble which this skull has
ever since occasioned. In the August of 1883, Dr. Richard Garnett, his
daughter, and a friend, while staying in the neighbourhood determined
to pay this eccentric skull a visit, the result of which is thus
amusingly told by Miss Garnett:
"One fine afternoon a party of three adventurous spirits started off,
hoping to discover the skull and investigate its history. This much we
knew, that the skull would only scream when it was buried, and so we
hoped to get leave to inter it in the churchyard. The village of
Bettiscombe was at length reached, and we found our way to the old
farmhouse, which stood at the end of the village by itself. It had
evidently been a manor house, and a very handsome one, too. We were
admitted into a fine paved hall, and attempted to break the ice by
asking for milk. We then endeavoured to draw the good woman of the
house into conversation by admiring the place, and asking in a guarded
manner respecting the famous skull. On this subject she was most
reserved. She had only lately had the farmhouse, and had been obliged
to take possession of the skull also; but she did not wish us to
suppose that she knew much about it; it was a veritable 'skeleton in
the closet' to her. After exercising great diplomacy, we persuaded her
to allow us a sight of it. We tramped up the fine old staircase till
we reached the top of the house, when, opening a cupboard door, she
showed us a steep, winding staircase, leading to the roof, and from
one of the steps the skull sat grinning at us. We took it in our hands
and examined it carefully; it was very old and weather-beaten, and
certainly human. The lower jaw was missing, the forehead very low and
badly proportioned. One of our party, who was a medical student,
examined it long and gravely, and then, after first telling the good
woman that he was a doctor, pronounced it to be, in his opinion, the
skull of a negro. After this oracular utterance, she resolved to make
a clean breast of all she knew, which, however, did not amount to
much. The skull, we were informed, was that of a negro servant, who
had lived in the service of a Roman Catholic priest. Some difference
arose between them; but whether the priest murdered the servant, in
order to conceal some crimes known to the negro, or whether the negro,
in a fit of passion, killed his master, did not clearly appear.
However, the negro had declared before his death that his spirit would
not rest unless his body was taken to his native land and buried
there. This was not done, he being buried in the churchyard of
Bettiscombe. Then the haunting began; fearful screams proceeded from
the grave, the doors and windows of the house rattled and creaked,
strange sounds were heard all over the house; in short, there was no
rest for the inmates until the body was dug up. At different periods
attempts were made to bury the body, but similar disturbances always
recurred. In process of time the skeleton disappeared, 'all save the
skull,' and its reputation as 'the screaming skull' remains
unimpaired."
In a farm-house in Sussex are preserved two skulls from Hastings
Priory, about which many gruesome stories are current in the
neighbourhood. One of these skulls, it appears, has been in the house
many years; the other was placed there by a former tenant of the farm.
It is the prevalent impression in the locality, that, if by any chance
the former skull were to be removed, the cattle in the farm would die,
and unearthly sounds be heard in and about the house at night time.
According to a local tradition, the skull belonged to a man who
murdered the owner of the house, and marks of blood are pointed out on
the floor of the adjoining room, where the murder is said to have been
committed, and which no washing will remove. But, on more than one
occasion, the skull has been taken away without any ill-effects, and,
one year, was placed by a profane hand in a branch of a neighbouring
tree, where it remained a whole summer, during which time a bird's
nest was constructed within it, and a young brood successfully reared.
And yet the old superstition still survives, and the prejudice
against tampering with this peculiar skull has in no way
diminished.[6]
There are the remains of a skull, in three parts, at Tunstead, a
farmhouse about a mile and a half from Chapel-en-le-Frith, which,
although popularly known by the male cognomen "Dickie," has always
been said to be that of a woman. How long it has been located in its
present home is not known, but tradition tells how one of two
co-heiresses residing here was murdered, who solemnly affirmed that
her bones should remain in the place for ever. In days past, this
skull has been guilty of all sorts of eccentric pranks, many of which
are still told by the credulous peasantry with respectful awe. It is
added,[7] also, that if "Dickie" should accidentally be removed,
everything in the farm will go wrong. The cows will be dry and barren,
the sheep have the rot, and horses fall down, breaking their knees and
otherwise injuring themselves. The story goes, too, that when the
London and North-Western Railway to Manchester was being made, the
foundations of a bridge gave way in the yielding sands and bog, and,
after several attempts to build the bridge had failed, it was found
necessary to divert the highway, and pass it under the railway on
higher ground. These engineering failures were attributed to the
malevolent influence of "Dickie," but as soon as the road was
diverted it was bridged successfully, because no longer in Dickie's
territory.
A similar superstition attaches to a skull kept in a farmhouse at
Chilton Cantelo, in Somersetshire. From the date on the tombstone of
the former owner of the skull--1670--it has been conjectured that he
came to the retired village, in which he was buried, after taking an
active part, on the Republican side, in the Civil War; and that seeing
the way in which the bodies of some of them who had acted with him
were treated after the Restoration, he wished to provide against this
in his own case. But, whatever the previous history of this curious
skull, it has at times caused a good deal of trouble, resenting any
proposal to consign it to the earth, for buried it will not be, no
matter how many attempts are made to do so. Strange to say, most of
this class of skulls behave in the same extraordinary fashion. At a
short distance from Turton Tower--one of the most interesting
structures in the neighbourhood of Bolton--is a farmhouse locally
designated Timberbottom, or the Skull House, so called from the
circumstance that two skulls are or were kept there, one of which was
much decayed, whereas the other appeared to have been cut through by a
blow from some sharp instrument. These skulls, it is said, have been
buried many times in the graveyard at Bradshaw Chapel, but they have
always had to be exhumed, and brought back to the farm-house. On one
occasion, they were thrown into the adjacent river, but to no purpose;
for they had to be fished up and restored to their old quarters before
the ghosts of their owners could once more rest in peace.
A popular cause assigned for this strange behaviour on the part of
certain skulls is that their owners met with a violent death, and that
the avenging spirit in this manner annoys the living, reminding us of
Macbeth's words:
"Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,
Ere human statute purg'd the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murders have been performed
Too terrible for the ear; the times have been
That, when the brains were out, the man would die
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools. This is more strange
Than such a murder is."
Hence, a romantic and tragic story is told of two skulls which have
long haunted an old house near Ambleside. It appears that a small
piece of ground, known as Calgrath, was owned by a humble farmer,
named Kraster Cook, and his wife Dorothy. But their little inheritance
was coveted by a wealthy magistrate, Myles Phillipson, who, unable to
induce them to part with it, swore "he'd have that ground, be they
'live or dead." As time wore on, however, he appeared more gracious to
Kraster and Dorothy, and actually invited them to a great Christmas
banquet given to the neighbours. It was a dear feast for them, for
Myles Phillipson pretended they had stolen a silver cup, and, sure
enough, it was found in Kraster's house--a "plant," of course. Such an
offence was then capital, and, as Phillipson was the magistrate,
Kraster and Dorothy were sentenced to death. Thereupon, Dorothy arose
in the court-room and addressed Phillipson in words that rang through
the building and impressed all for their awful earnestness:
"Guard thyself, Myles Phillipson! Thou thinkest thou hast managed
grandly, but that tiny lump of land is the dearest a Phillipson has
ever bought or stolen, for you will never prosper, neither your breed.
Whatever scheme you undertake will wither in your hand; the side you
take will always lose; the time shall come when no Phillipson shall
own an inch of land; and while Calgarth walls shall stand we'll haunt
it night and day. Never will ye be rid of us!"
Henceforth, the Phillipsons had for their guests two skulls. They were
found at Christmas at the head of a staircase. They were buried in a
distant region, but they turned up in the old house again. Again and
again were the two skulls burned; they were brazed to dust and cast to
the winds, and for several years they were cast in the lake, but the
Phillipsons could never get rid of them. In the meantime, Dorothy's
weird went steadily on to its fulfilment, until the family sank into
poverty, and at length disappeared.[8]
As a more rational explanation of the matter, it is told by some local
historians "that there formerly lived in the house a famous doctress,
who had two skeletons by her for the usual purposes of her profession,
and these skulls, happening to meet with better preservation than the
rest of the bones, they were accidentally honoured" with this singular
tradition.[9]
Wardley Hall, Lancashire, has its skull, which is supposed to be the
witness of some tragedy committed in the past, and to have belonged to
Roger Downes, the last male representative of his family, and who was
one of the most abandoned courtiers of Charles II. Roby, in one of his
"Traditions," entitled "The Skull House," has represented him as
rushing forth "hot from the stews," drawing his sword as he staggered
along, and swearing that he would kill the first man he met. Terrible
to say, that fearful oath was fulfilled, for his victim was a poor
tailor, whom he ran through with his weapon and killed on the spot. He
was apprehended for the crime, but his interest at Court quickly
procured him a free pardon, and he soon continued his reckless course.
But one evening, as his sister and cousin Eleanor were chatting
together at Wardley, the carrier from Manchester brought a wooden
box, "which had come all the way from London by Antony's waggon."
Suspecting that there was something mysterious connected with this
package, for the direction was "a quaint, crabbed hand," she opened it
in secret, when, to her amazement and horror, this writing attracted
her notice:
"Thy brother has at length paid the forfeit of his crimes. The wages
of sin is death! And his head is before thee. Heaven hath avenged the
innocent blood he hath shed. Last night, in the lusty vigour of a
drunken debauch, passing over London Bridge, he encounters another
brawl, wherein, having run at the watchmen with his rapier, one blow
of the bill which they carried severed thy brother's head from his
trunk. The latter was cast over the parapet into the river. The head
only remained, which an eye witness, if not a friend, hath sent to
thee!" His sister tried at first to keep the story of her brother's
death a secret, and hid with all speed this ghastly memorial for ever,
as she hoped, from the gaze and knowledge of the world. It was her
desire to conceal this foul stain upon the family name, but "the grave
gives back its dead. The charnel gapes. The ghastly head hath burst
its cold tabernacle, and risen from the dust." No human power could
drive it away. It hath "been torn in pieces, burnt, and otherwise
destroyed, but even on the subsequent day it is seen filling its
wonted place. Yet it was always observed that sore vengeance
lighted on its persecutors. One who hacked it in pieces was seized
with such horrible torments in his limbs that it seemed as though he
might be undergoing the same process. Sometimes, if only displaced, a
fearful storm would arise, so loud and terrible that the very elements
themselves seemed to become the ministers of its wrath." Nor will this
eccentric piece of mortality allow the little aperture in which it
rests to be walled up, for it remains there still, whitened and
bleached by the weather, "looking forth from those rayless sockets
upon the scenes which, when living, they had once beheld." Towards the
close of the last century, Thomas Barritt, the Manchester antiquary,
visited this skull--"this surprising piece of household furniture," as
he calls it, and adds that "one of us who was last in company with it,
removed it from its place into a dark part of the room, and there left
it, and returned home." But on the following night a violent storm
arose in the neighbourhood, causing an immense deal of damage--trees
being blown down and roofs unthatched--and the cause, as it was
supposed, being ascertained, the skull was replaced, when these
terrific disturbances ceased. And yet, as Thomas Barritt sensibly
remarks, "All this might have happened had the skull never been
removed; but withal it keeps alive the credibility of the tradition."
Formerly two keys were provided for this "place of a skull," one being
kept by the tenant of the Hall, and the other by the Countess of
Ellesmere, the owner of the property. The Countess occasionally
accompanied visitors from the neighbouring Worsley Hall, and herself
unlocked the door, and revealed to her friends the grinning skull of
Wardley Hall.[10]
[Illustration: SHE OPENED IT IN SECRET.]
Another romantic story is associated with Burton Agnes Hall, between
Bridlington and Driffield, Yorkshire, which is haunted by the spirit
of a lady a former co-heiress of the estate--who is popularly known as
"Awd Nance." The skull of this lady is carefully preserved in the
Hall, and so long as it is left undisturbed all goes well, but
whenever any attempt is made to remove it, the most unearthly noises
are heard in the house, and last until it is restored. According to a
local tradition, many years ago the three co-heiresses of the estate
of Burton Agnes were possessed of considerable wealth, and finding the
ancient mansion, in which they resided, not in harmony with their
ideas of what a home should be suited to their position, determined to
erect a house in such a style as should eclipse all others in the
neighbourhood. The most prominent organiser of the scheme was the
younger sister, Anne, who could talk or think of nothing but the
magnificent home about to be built, which in due time, it is said,
"emerged from the hands of artists and workmen, like a palace erected
by the genii of the Arabian Nights, a palace encrusted throughout on
walls, roof, and furniture with the most exquisite carvings and
sculptures of the most skilled masters of the age, and radiant with
the most glowing tints of the pencil of Peter Paul."
But soon after its completion and occupation by its three
co-heiresses, Anne, the enthusiast, paid an afternoon visit to the St.
Quentins, at Harpham. On starting to return home about nightfall with
her dog, she had gone no great distance when she was confronted by two
ruffianly-looking beggars, who asked alms. She readily gave them a few
coins, and in doing so the glitter of her finger-ring accidentally
attracted their notice, which they at once demanded should be given up
to them. This she refused to do, as it had been her mother's ring, and
was one which she valued above all price.
"Mother or no mother," gruffly replied one of the rogues, "we mean to
have it, and if you do not part with it freely, we must take it,"
whereupon he seized her hand and attempted to drag off the ring.
Frightened at this act of violence, Anne screamed for help, at which
the other ruffian, exclaiming, "Stop that noise!" struck her a blow,
and she fell senseless to the earth. But her screams had attracted
attention, and the approach of some villagers caused the villains to
make a hasty retreat, without being able to get the ring from her
finger. In a dying condition, as it was supposed, Anne was carried
back to Harpham Hall, where, under the care of Lady St. Quentin, she
made sufficient recovery to be removed the following day to her own
home. The brutal treatment she had received from the highwaymen,
however, had done its fatal work, and after a few days, during which
she was alternately sensible and delirious, she succumbed to the
effects. Her one thought previous to death was her devotion to her
home, which had latterly been the ruling passion of her life; and
bidding her sisters farewell, she addressed them thus:--
"Sisters, never shall I sleep peacefully in my grave in the churchyard
unless I, or a part of me at least, remain here in our beautiful home
as long as it lasts. Promise me this, dear sisters, that when I am
dead my head shall be taken from my body and preserved within these
walls. Here let it for ever remain, and on no account be removed. And
understand and make it known to those who in future shall become
possessors of the house, that if they disobey this my last injunction,
my spirit shall, if so able and so permitted, make such a disturbance
within its walls as to render it uninhabitable for others so long as
my head is divorced from its home."
Her sisters promised to accede to her dying request, but failed to do
so, and her body was laid entire under the pavement of the church.
Within a few days Burton Agnes Hall was disturbed by the most
alarming noises, and no servant could be induced to remain in the
house. In this dilemma, the two sisters remembered that they had not
carried out Anne's last wish, and, at the suggestion of the clergyman,
the coffin was opened, when a strange sight was seen. The "body lay
without any marks of corruption or decay; but the head was disengaged
from the trunk, and appeared to be rapidly assuming the semblance of a
fleshless skull." This was reported to the two sisters, and on the
vicar's advice the skull of Anne was taken to Burton Agnes Hall,
where, so long as it remained undisturbed, no ghostly noises were
heard. It may be added that numerous attempts have from time to time
been made to rid the hall of this skull, but without success.
Many other similar skulls are still existing in various places, and,
in addition to their antiquarian interest, have attracted the
sightseer, connected as they mostly are with tales of legendary
romance. An amusing anecdote of a skull is told by the late Mr. Wirt
Sikes.[11] It seems that on a certain day some men were drinking at an
inn when one of them, to show his courage and want of superstition,
affirmed that he was "afraid of no ghosts," and dared to go to the
church and fetch a skull. This he did, and after an hour or so of
merrymaking over the skull, he carried it back to where he had found
it; but, as he was leaving the church, "suddenly a tremendous blast
like a whirlwind seized him, and so mauled him that he ever after
maintained that nothing should induce him to do such a thing again."
The man was still more convinced that the ghost of the original owner
of the skull had been after him, when his wife informed him that the
cane which hung in his room had been beating against the wall in a
dreadful manner.
Byron had his skull romance at Newstead, but in this case the skull
was more orderly, and not given to those unpleasant pranks of which
other skulls have seemingly been guilty. Whilst living at Newstead, a
skull was one day found of large dimensions and peculiar whiteness.
Concluding that it belonged to some friar who had been domesticated at
Newstead--prior to the confiscation of the monasteries by Henry
VIII.--Byron determined to convert it into a drinking vessel, and for
this purpose dispatched it to London, where it was elegantly mounted.
On its return to Newstead, he instituted a new order at the Abbey,
constituting himself grand master, or abbot, of the skull. The
members, twelve in number, were provided with black gowns--that of
Byron, as head of the fraternity, being distinguished from the rest. A
chapter was held at certain times, when the skull drinking goblet was
filled with claret, and handed about amongst the gods of this
consistory, whilst many a grim joke was cracked at the expense of
this relic of the dead. The following lines were inscribed upon it by
Byron:
Start not, nor deem my spirit fled;
In me behold the only skull
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.
I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee;
I died: let earth my bones resign.
Fill up, thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than mine.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others, let me shine,
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine.
Quaff while thou canst. Another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.
The skull, it is said, is buried beneath the floor of the chapel at
Newstead Abbey.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Sussex Archæological Collections xiii. 162-3.
[7] See _Notes and Queries_, 4th S., XI. 64.
[8] Told by Mr. Moncure Conway in _Harper's Magazine_.
[9] "Tales and Legends of the English Lakes," 96-7.
[10] "Harland's Lancashire Legends," 1882, 65-70.
[11] "British Goblins," 1880, p. 146.