The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Bessie Kyffin-Taylor-From Out of the Silence

by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor

  “I am not sad, dear, I loved it,” answered Mrs. Stuart, “but those words always arrest me, however the tune has been maltreated, but let us light up now,” she added, “it is time we dressed—matches please, somebody, not all of you,” She went on smiling, “only one box,” turning as she spoke to light up the three standard lamps, dispelling in a few seconds the mystery of firelight and music, landing us suddenly in a matter-of-fact world, in place of our separate dream-worlds.

  “By Jove, we haven’t much time,” I remarked, glancing at my watch as I turned to make my way upstairs.

  The room, as I entered it, looked cheery, candles had been lit, fire newly made up—I noticed there were more candles than before—I suppose with the idea of banishing all idea of gloom or creepiness, yet, in spite of it the room did not feel normal, I couldn’t explain it, but the feeling was there, a feeling I could not give a name to, possibly the music had made me unduly sensitive, at any rate it had not soothed me, and I did not care to linger over my dressing, feeling glad that some slight hustle on my part was really necessary, if I was to be ready when the dinner-gong sounded.

  With an idea of keeping my illumination until later, I blew out all the candles but one, as soon as I was ready, but that one I left on the extreme corner of the mantelpiece nearest to the door, as I reached the door, I remembered I had left my handkerchief on the dressing-table, I knew I was foolish, but I had not any desire to walk back to that now dim part of the room where the dressing-table stood, I mentally pulled myself together as I moved towards it. As I did so, a light as from a candle seemed to suddenly light it up, and I turned quickly—the candle was where I had left it, but was not alight—the only light was seemingly poised in the air, close to the bed, about the exact height it would be if held in a person’s hand who was standing beside the bed.

  I made no further attempt to find my handkerchief, but, trembling in every limb, staggered to the door, nor did I turn then to see where the candle was. The rest of that evening was neither more nor less than a ghastly nightmare to me—I believe I sat through a dinner, I know I drank a good deal of champagne, I know I talked and laughed, and later smoked, and played billiards, but like a wound-up toy not like a living being. Towards eleven it was no use anyone playing the game, the game was up, we all knew it, everyone present shared to some extent the feeling of foreboding that had me in its clutches.

  “I am going to bed,” I announced, when I had come to the end of my grip on things—“Goodnight, everybody, wish me luck, or at least, sleep.”

  All answered me in a sort of chorus, all that is except the professor, who had apparently slipped away in his usual manner.

  I arrived at my room feeling that one straw more would send me flying from the house. As I opened the door the pungent aroma of a cigar met me, and my eyes fell on the figure of the old professor, enveloped in a weird dressing gown of green and yellow, in which he had the appearance of a large caterpillar, his grey head was adorned by a scarlet skull cap, his feet encased in large red worsted slippers, and his whole attitude was one of benign, complacent restfulness. I felt my fears slip away, he looked so comfortable, so at home, so composed, as if quite unruffled by aught that could happen.

  “You are surprised, dear lad,” he said, in his mellow tones, “I thought you would be, I admired your grit, in sticking to it, so thought, if you would permit me, I would keep you company.”

  “I am overjoyed, sir,” I said, beaming on him, “I—I was rather dreading it, it is jolly good of you, I shall be glad of your company.”

  We settled ourselves cosily beside the fire, first lighting up all candles, and chatted on every subject, until nearly 1 a. m., neither of us feeling like sleep, indeed it seemed to me the old man grew more alert as time passed.

  “Are you cold, sir?” I asked suddenly.

  “Yes, I am,” he replied, and together we heaped on more fuel.

  “There isn’t much warmth in these sir, is there?” I asked.

  No,” he replied, “one could almost think the fire was dying down.”

  “It is,” I gasped, “look at it.” And surely but slowly it dwindled, until its last remaining flicker died away, and sank as dead fires do, back into the grate in cold blankness.

  I looked at the professor, he was staring intently at the fourposter, which in the now cold gloomy room had taken on a new aspect. It appeared hung with white, a white sheet lay stiffly spread upon it, a rigid form was beneath it, and the unforgettable scent of funeral flowers filled the air.

  I cowered down beside the professor’s knees, trembling, speechless, he held my hand in a tense grip and we waited, watching.

  The door softly opened to admit the nurse, whom I had seen the night before—softly she seemed to slip-shod over the floor in her felt slippers, taking up her position beside the bed—she uncovered the face of the old man, to whom I had seen her administer a dose, and raising the candle she had picked up from the table as she passed, she peered intently at the old man’s face for an instant, turning away finally, with a slow, evil smile on her features—“Her” features! I called them, my heavens! in spite of the lank iron grey hair, tight lips, and death-like face, her features—nay, her very movements and expression were those not of a stranger, but—of—Miss Brown!

  “Is it Miss Brown?” I gasped, in a hoarse whisper.

  “Hush! no, it is not,” whispered the professor, “keep quiet.”

  Before our eyes men entered that ghastly room, placed that rigid figure in a coffin, raised it, and slowly shuffled out of the room. I shivered as the icy coldness of a wind swept by me, when they passed through the door. We heard them shuffling along the passage, their steps growing fainter and fainter, then silence—only the nurse remained, standing immovable, pale, shadowy, the dim light of the now flickering candles dimly lighting her, as she stood with a grim smile twisting her face, one hand outstretched towards us, as if triumphantly, and on her finger a single ring— an uncut emerald in a dull silver setting!

  Slowly before our eyes she faded, and we were alone, but to my last hour, I shall smell the sickly perfume of funeral flowers, and feel the icy wind sweep by me whenever I see the white cap and apron of a nurse.

  “Dare you follow?” whispered the professor.

  I nodded, unable to speak, as he rose leading me by the arm to the door. A sound as of faint music came wafting towards us, and everywhere there seemed the penetrating scent of funeral flowers.

  As we reached the top of the stairs, there, just ahead of us, stood the figure of the nurse, as if watching with malignant eyes the slowly moving procession, as it went down the stairs; beside the nurse, almost touching her, stood—Miss Brown—gowned in a long trailing black robe, her head held defiantly, as if commanding this scene to cease. There was not any mistake now in the relationship of the two women, as they stood facing each other, for even I, in my terror-stricken state, was well aware, that, feature for feature, the nurse’s face was identical with the face of Miss Brown, though older.

  The professor spoke to her, but she gazed at him, as if with unseeing eyes of a somnambulist. Suddenly the nurse turned, and, with a swift movement, flashed the emerald ring before Miss Brown’s face, then, smiling her evil smile, she, too, descended the stairs, fading away into nothingness, ere she reached the foot, in the same way as both coffin and bearers had faded. The quiet of a house at 2 a. m. enveloped us, Miss Brown, without word or sign, went slowly back to her room. The professor drew my arm quickly through his own, as he led me, half fainting as I was, to his own room. I think I must have fainted, for the next thing I remember was the smell of hot coffee! and opened my eyes to see Mrs. Stuart pouring it out, as if a coffee party at 2 a. m. in a guest’s room was the most usual thing!

  I finished the night on the professor’s sofa, though sleep was denied me; he nevertheless would not allow me to talk.

  “Wait until daylight,” was all he would say, as I obediently swallowed a dose he gave me. Morning came at last, but I felt ill a
nd shaken, though refusing to rest, I joined the breakfast party; after that, we gathered round the fire, and talked over the whole thing. I was allowed to tell my story of the three nights I had passed in No. 10, only to learn that I had witnessed every detail of the gruesome tale.

  “Why didn’t you warn me?” I naturally enquired.

  “Peter,” said Mrs. Stuart, “we one and all ought to ask pardon for that, but we all thought you would go right through it alone. There is a sort of tag to the curse, to the effect that someone seeing it all though alone will, in part, remove the curse. No one has so far done so. Miss Brown has tried and failed, the professor would not attempt it alone, but seeing the state of tension you were in, last night, said he would not be responsible if you were allowed to go to your room alone.”

  “Now you know how you upset Miss Brown. She naturally thought you saw the likeness to herself in the gruesome nurse, and thought you were twitting her with it.”

  “But Miss Wood?” I questioned.

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Stuart, with a smile, “she was nervy and wanted to warn you, only you treated her like an infant, she said, so she kept out of your way.”

  “One question more,” I asked. “The emerald ring, why does Miss Brown wear it?”

  “That is the horrible part of it all,” said Mrs. Stuart, “the Brown family always felt that the ring ought to be put back in the old man’s coffin, so, many years ago, the body of the nurse was exhumed, and the ring taken from her hand; but, as ill-luck would have it, the records, or whatever they are called, showing where the old man was buried, could not be found, so the Brown family have kept the ring. Miss Brown thought she would leave it outside the house last night, to see if it made any difference to the sequence of events, apparently it did not, and the professor says it is not by any means the first time a curse has followed the stealing of a man’s jewel, and he is doing his utmost, so far without success, to find the grave, and restore the ring, it may or may not cause the haunting of this house to cease, but meantime no one can see the thing through and keep sane, alone, and Miss Brown wears the stolen jewel until it can be restored to its dead owner. It is a horrible story, and one apparently impossible to clear up. You’ve been jolly plucky, Peter, but you shall not again sleep in Room No. 10.”

  Nor did I, but I spent some very happy weeks wandering

  Two Little Red Shoes

  All my life, or at least as far back as I can remember, empty houses have always had an irresistible attraction for me, though uninhabited gardens are almost as attractive. I cannot call the gardens empty, though people may be absent, for a garden is never really empty—spring, summer or winter—there is always life in a garden! Spring! and the singing of mating birds. Summer! hot, drowsy summer days, with the ceaseless hum of millions of insects; just to lie listening, in what most people call silence, though it is a silence fraught with countless sounds. Winter! the most still, has its sounds and life.

  A notice board inevitably draws my footsteps nearer to an empty house, the more weatherworn the “To Let” the greater the attraction.

  My infatuation for empty houses has led me into curious situations at times, and has often been the source of very real pleasure and interest. Occasionally I have had unpleasant episodes; but, on the whole, happy hours predominated. Long years ago my prying tendencies had about them the elements of a game of “Let’s pretend,” for in imagination dwelt in one or other of those silent, houses, always with a tender lover by my side: I used to choose my drawing-rooms, and furnish them—I chose my nurseries, and peopled them with little people; my colour schemes were many and very varied, and in this way I passed many happy hours—so happy indeed, that those hours spent in empty houses were more my real life, than the other.

  Years have passed, and part of my game has come true—only part of it—for my colour schemes were somehow never attainable in a work-a-day, practical world, and there were other parts of my daydreams, and they, too, remained “daydreams.” In spite of passing years, in spite of work, in spite of all, I have never outgrown my fondness for empty houses and uninhabited gardens, and to this day I am known to visit a tenantless house, light a fire, from a hidden store of coal and wood, seat myself in an old broken-down chair, and there, in the silence—a silence unbroken by the ring of telephone or any other bells—I dream my dreams and revel in unbroken solitude—with every nerve at rest, sure in the knowledge that none can disturb my peace, since none know my whereabouts—I have said strange episodes have befallen me at times—one so strange as to be almost unbelievable—yet let those explain who can!

  A long hot summer was drawing to an end—a summer of almost tropical heat, which had left the earth parched and brown, green lawns looked like brown felt, and people had at last given up in despair the sprinkling of water in their thirsty gardens— it seemed waste of energy and water, the flowers were too thirsty—so were left to droop and fade away almost before they were fully out; leaves tumbled off trees while yet green, simply because they were sun-baked and dry. Even the birds waited about expecting some thoughtful human creature to give them a dish of water to drink and play in.

  Most people had gone either to the sea or hills, certainly all who could afford it had fled, and those unfortunate ones whom work or duties chained to the towns, were deserving of pity, as they toiled through the hours of day, returning, in what they tried to call the cool of the evening, to their dried-up bits of garden, or suffocating rooms. I was one of those unlucky ones—doomed to stay in town until the end of August, after which I was free—Free! with a little sum of money at my disposal to squander as and where I pleased. For some reason it pleased me to save that bit of money and not spend it in train travelling other than one short journey, for I had long ago made up my mind that when next the Fates were sufficiently kind as to leave me in undisputed possession of our happy home, and granted me a few days’ freedom from the daily round—the common task, I would spend that time in pursuance of my favourite pastime—the hunting out and getting into uninhabited houses and gardens—I already knew of one such house, and had long made up my mind to inspect it—so, on this first day of my freedom, I made a parcel of some food, a book, some paper and pencils, and donning old garments, I set forth.

  A short train journey and a long walk landed me at a pair of massive old iron gates—they were shut, and, to my intense disappointment, padlocked! I peered through them up a long grassy drive, with high banks of rhododendrons on each side—the drive was not newly grass-grown, it had always been a grass drive—and straight ahead at the far end of it, stood the house—I meant to reach it, I intended to get inside, and I was not going to be daunted by a merely padlocked gate—even though the said gate was too high to climb, and, moreover, had spikes at the top. I wandered on past the gates and spotted a thin part of the close thorn hedge, where the paling behind had rotted and given way.

  Through this thinned hedge I scrambled, and over the broken paling, but didn’t intend to spoil my approach that way, so crept back inside the fence until I reached the gates. “So much for your padlock,” I thought, as I started triumphantly to march up the length of that old grassy drive—odd little paths branched off it from time to time, leading I knew not whither, and all of them were grass; gravel or paving of any kind was unknown. As I neared the house, I found myself thinking what a silent place it must have been to dwell in, with all the approaches of soft turf, no sound of feet or wheels would be heard, such silence would have pleased me well.

  Probably most people would have gone straight to the house and peered in at the windows. I did not. I sat down on the short turf, under the shadow of a giant copper beech tree, and stared at those many blank windows, looking down on me, as if they were so many eyes. It has always been my way to approach those things which please me in a lingering kind of manner, as if, like the children do, I tried to make them last longer. I felt like this as I sat gazing at the house I had long waited to inspect, but having attained my desire, I lingered, even though long
ing to get inside.

  It was a dull, red brick house, with many windows, but all flat—not a “bay” window or jutting corner anywhere—only the front door broke the monotony, it having a curious porch—two sides glass, with a heavy oak door in the-centre. The bell-pull attracted my eye next, it was a heavy copper chain, and green with age in many places—the handle, a horseshoe—of rusty iron. I wondered if that had been the original, or whether some inmate, with a tendency to superstition, had hung it there.

  From my comfortable seat, I let my gaze wander to and fro from window to window, trying to picture the rooms within, yet still putting off my attempt to enter—no thought of being unable to do so entered my mind, for by some means or other I intended to accomplish what to me was a definite purpose. I would eat my lunch first, I decided, then find a way indoors, and later, as it grew cooler, wander in the garden. It was gloriously still there under the beech tree, so still, that I grew drowsy, and all but fell asleep (that would waste time, I thought), so roused myself with an effort, and drew nearer to the house. I believe in my heart I feared being foiled in my desire, and that was one reason why I delayed, but time, relentless always, was passing along, and I must really make a start.

  I peered through the windows to the right of the door. “Oh! Lovely!” I exclaimed, and hurriedly peeped in those on the other side of the door. “What a contrast,” I thought, I must get in; so almost ran round the back of the house in my eagerness. Window after window I tried in vain, but at last caught sight of one with a broken hasp. This, by using a penknife, and sharp-edged stone, I raised sufficiently to get my fingers in and lift it up, then, jumping on to the sill, I crept through, closing the window softly behind me. I found myself in a big lofty kitchen—minus furniture of any kind, though oddly enough two little dish covers still hung on the walls. From there I wandered along a stone passage, which had many doors—I don’t mean doors opening on to them, but heavy doors across them—every few yards—as if the dwellers in the house had intended cutting off all sound from the kitchen premises being heard in other parts of the house—the end door was cedar wood, and as I closed it, I realised that the living rooms seemed quite in another world. I entered the room to the right of the front door, the room which had caused me to exclaim “lovely!” when I peered through its windows.