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

by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor

  All were empty, dusty, cold and faded, though once, as in the rooms below, the decorations must have been beautiful, one large, airy room particularly charmed me, especially the ceiling—hand-painted, apparently—a dull, cream ground with tiny, naked babies flying about, holding up pale blue ribbons, all of them gathered, so to speak, by one baby of a larger size in the centre, who held in his wee hands the ends of the ribbons almost as if driving a team of other babies. What held my attention was the exquisite beauty of the child faces; truly, this house had held one lover of children at any rate. I stayed a little while in that room, sitting on the broad window sill, happy with my fancies amongst those pretty babies. The room, I imagined, was just over the “toy-room,” judging from the view from the window, so perhaps this was the room of their mother.

  Perhaps she rested here where her quick ear could catch the sound of little voices in the room beneath. Happy mother! and happy babies. Was she a mother in the old, real meaning of the word—someone to whom the children could go always sure of sympathy for woes and joy in their joy. Mothers like that are rare today, they have not time. Children weary them, pet dogs are so much less trouble.

  This room, with its painted babies, was filling my eyes with useless tears; I felt I was losing time, sitting brooding here of things, which, after all, were probably “Direction that I could not see,” so, with a lingering look at the lovely, laughing faces, I quietly stepped away, wending my way back along the long corridor, to the head of the staircase, where there was a quaintly-carved white gate. The babies again, I thought, as I paused beside the gate, noticing that on the top of it was fixed a little silver bell which gave out a sweet deep-toned ring, as the gate was touched, evidently once inside the gate, the bell was a signal if it was opened again; probably for mischief, sometimes a tiny hand would shake the gate, calling instantly some person, maybe nurse, or mother, quickly to gather in the straying baby. I sighed again as I went down the stairs. So far today the house had been singularly quiet. I was glad in a way, yet somehow disappointed. I wanted my babies. Very well, then—the toy-room should be my next room.

  Softly I opened the door, almost feeling as if I should catch them at their play, but all was silent. I would wait, so went quietly to where an old, much-used rocking-chair stood. No fancy affair this, but a solid yellow, wood chair, with big cane seat and back, and large rockers, the right sort of chair in which to rock tired kiddies. I sat down in it and silently waited. I knew I was waiting—it is one thing to merely sit down to rest—it is quite another to sit down to wait—wait—for something—or someone, not knowing what or for whom. I tried to read a little book I had put in my pocket, but my eyes refused to keep on the page, and my ears seemed awaiting sounds. They came at last—the sounds—not the babies, sounds that made me spring from my chair and listen, listen! with thumping heart and cold terror gripping me!

  Scream after scream, rang through the silence—piercing shrill, the screams of a little child—no, of little children—not the screams one hears in a nursery, when squabbles occur; not the screams of rage or vexation of thwarted wishes, or bedtime orders, but the awful heart-rending screams of children in dire pain and terror. I could have screamed also, merely hearing them, and yet I felt powerless to move or stir, my limbs refused their office. I could only stand shuddering. Two more piteous cries reached my ears, and then silence, but only for a brief space, as suddenly the door was flung violently open and two small, naked figures fell rather than walked into the room—fell, as if pushed in, and the door swiftly banged to—the bang brought me more or less to my senses, and I stared horror-stricken, aghast—the two little figures were my sunny smiling children of the garden; but oh! the pity of it, their little faces smiled no longer, tears coursed down each baby face, as they stood clinging together, tremblingly; their lovely, little bodies covered with marks as of a lash or stick, weals and cuts which showed like blood; even across their wee legs were hideous marks.

  Even now, as I look back after many years, I find it difficult to believe those little figures were not “real,” so real did they appear to me. I wanted to go to them, to kneel beside them, soothing, comforting, but something—was it their absolute unconsciousness of my presence, I wonder—kept me still, and watching, slowly their sobbing ceased, as still trembling they moved together to where an old-fashioned sofa stood. I saw them, with difficulty, drag their little, sore and battered bodies up on to it, and cower down under the old, worn blanket, flung on it; I saw them, arms round each other, fair head and dark, close, close together; I saw the quivering limbs grow still, as I heard little moans die away on their lips, and then I saw a soft, unearthly light hover for one instant over the old couch, and then—I was alone, the sofa empty—the room silent!

  For a long time I stood staring, and then I knew my first feeling was one of intense relief, that those little, ill-used babies were not real—though my heart was aching, sickeningly, at what must once have been; my second feeling was one of stern resolve to know and fathom, to punish, if not too late, the author of such misery. Poor little babies! What had been their fate, and why?

  Slowly my wits resumed their balance, and my nerves lost some of the strain. I ventured near the sofa, half-expecting to see the little faces, but only the worn, old blanket lay on the sofa; so, stepping swiftly to the fireside. I knelt down, and taking the little shoes from my pocket, I laid them gently in the spot from whence I had taken them, and, for the first time, glanced at my watch. Five minutes past four! “The usual time,” I murmured. “How strange it all is, yet there are those whose fixed and unalterable belief is that if there ever are “ghosts” seen, it can only be at midnight!” How little such people know! Evidently, then, I had been the witness of varied visions of these little ones—the story of their little lives was rapidly unfolding before me. I had heard them on the first afternoon, when I took the little shoes; I had seen them happy in the garden on my second visit, and today, my third visit, I had seen them tortured, torn. Should I see them again, I wondered, or was this last awful scene the final one! At any rate, I felt I should not see them again today, so prepared to take my leave.

  I had just reached the hall, when the sound of a heavy groan fell on my ears—a groan and a sound of a moving chair. Nothing unearthly about that, I thought, though why I was so sure of it I could not tell. The moving chair brought the caretaker to my mind, probably groaning at having to come at all, I thought, but, anyway, I will track her for once. Again something moved. “The other front room,” I murmured, as I bravely went towards it, and opened the door. It was empty, but the door leading from it into the little, horrible room, where the two little stools were, was slightly ajar. I hated the thought of entering it, but felt compelled to do so; as I neared it, moving as softly as I could, I heard strange words and mutterings. I had just reached the door when the words—

  “My God! is there no peace?” uttered in a man’s voice, arrested my steps, and then, in louder tones—“Help, oh, help!”

  Instantly I pushed the door open. “Well,” I said.

  A gaunt, misshapen figure rose suddenly—a man with long, white beard and hair, eyes sunken and burning, fixed themselves upon me, as with a shriek, he yelled—“Yes, yes, the well! That is it, the well, it is there they are. Who are you? How did you find out? Oh, God! my sin is found out, my punishment is upon me—I confess—I confess. There, take it, take it, it is all there; too late, too late for reparation, make proper use of it, take it,” and he flung a heavily-sealed packet almost in my face, and then—swiftly pulling out a small phial from his coat pocket, he raised it to his mouth, and ere I could stay his hand, had drunk the contents, and, raising his hand upwards, said—

  “God forgive me—pardon—I have atoned,” and fell forward, face downwards, on the stone floor.

  I need not dwell upon the horror I went through, when, in my headlong flight from the house, I stumbled blindly to the nearest police officer, and there, with hurried breath, I told of my visits to the empty
house, by way of passing idle hours, and of my suddenly coming upon this man, with my exclamation—“Well?” which apparently startled him into giving up his guilty secret. I did not deem it necessary to tell of the little children, at least not to police, because they would, if not openly grin and deride me, most certainly have suggested to the nearest medical man that a young woman who moons about empty houses and sees ghosts was not a fit person to be unattended, so I kept my “dream babies” to myself, and one other.

  To my unspeakable annoyance, I was dragged into the affair, and forced to give evidence as to the finding of the man and of his subsequent act—the taking his own life.

  The sealed packet, being addressed to “The person who found him out,” was, therefore, proved to belong to me, and to my unfortunate self fell the task of reading and making it known, and later, carrying out the instructions contained therein.

  The confession of a man apparently driven to it by awful fear was a terrible thing to read, and for this story need only be put briefly. He wrote—

  I write this my confession as the one atonement I can make for a sin which has rendered my life and the life of my son a living torture. I have travelled by land and sea, I have visited many strange lands, I have done all that mind could plan or money achieve, in a vain attempt to deaden the relentless voice of conscience or dull the sound of children weeping, which rings in my ears daylight or dark. Sleep is a friend unknown to me, save only drugged sleep. Joy or happiness I have never known.

  If the sun shines, I remember the sunny garden and the children at play, ready to tremble if they heard my voice or that of my son.

  If it rains, I remember the punishment room, where we tortured those innocent little ones. Nowhere can I rest, Oh, God! save in my grave, and only then, if I atone—

  He relates how he was left by his brother, then in India, as guardian to these children of his, and how he and his son Roger made up their minds from the first to get the vast sum of money, left to the children, into their own hands; and, as later evidence proved, they treated the children with systematic cruelty, though no one suspected it—their torturing of them always taking place during late afternoon or evening hours, but during the day, when people were about, money was lavished upon the children, and a certain amount of care taken of them.

  In his confession, he relates how he and his wretched son used to fasten the children to two high stools in the dismal room, and whip them until the blood ran from their little bodies. There was no one to shield them; his son and their nurse, as evil as himself, aided him in his cruelty, having been promised a large sum as soon as the children were safely disposed of.

  The father of the children was killed in some Frontier trouble, soon after his return to his regiment, and the shock of his death reduced their mother to a helpless invalid who seldom left her own rooms, believing her little ones were in good hands.

  They were always taken to see her at noon—their nurse watching them evilly, having threatened them with punishment if they “told tales.”

  Systematic cruelty was dealt out to these hapless babes, day by day, until one day, they were beaten so vilely, that both died from shock, and were found on the old couch in the toy-room clasped in each other’s arms—dead.

  Here his confession reaches frenzy, as he adds—

  Together my son and I took the bodies we had so ill-used and flung them, into the old disused well in the sunk garden, where, I am certain, their spirits will haunt us all our days.

  We told their mother that gipsies seen in the neighbourhood must have stolen them, and pretended to try and find them, and use every available means, unavailingly. This added grief killed the poor lady, leaving us to enjoy—if we could—our ill-gotten gains.

  My miserable son was killed in a motor accident, soon after, and I—God knows!—a miserable haunted creature, roam the earth seeking peace and finding none.

  And finally, the hand of fate drew him back to the scene of his crime, and he endeavoured to make reparation by leaving the vast fortune he now possessed—

  To benefit some children in whatsoever manner the finder of this confession shall decide.

  Many years have gone by, and a beautiful “Home for Convalescent Children” has taken the place of my “House of Mystery.” Upstairs, in gay, cheery rooms, are long rows of little, white beds. Downstairs, in the “Room of Toys,” are still more toys, and little tots in dainty, blue overalls play, and grow strong and well.

  In the “Punishment Room,” now called “Matron’s Room,” sits a sunny-faced, gentle lady, ever ready to help her little ones, and adored by her nurses.

  In the sunk garden are swings and couches, and many games. One corner of the garden has been opened out, and a high, grass mound made there; on it is an exquisite white marble Angel, holding in her arms two tiny children—that is all. No names or dates are given—simply “In memory of two children.”

  Only once has the old story been brought vividly to my memory. I was visiting the Home, and the night nurse, a sweet motherly woman, asked me—

  “Was there ever a story about this house, ma’am?”

  “Why, nurse?” I asked.

  “Oh, it may be fancy, ma’am,” she replied, “but once or twice I thought I heard a little child crying, but all my little ones were asleep, and at times I’ve heard tiny pattering feet when none of my babies were out of their beds; and once, ma’am, a woman brought a tiny girl here, and the little thing had on a pair of wee scarlet shoes. That night, I heard soft, baby laughter and little chuckles of glee, and though I, myself, put those little shoes in a safe place, they had been moved by the morning, but this was before the beautiful white angel was put in the garden ma’am, just about the time the gardeners filled in that unsafe old well. I have not heard anything since then.”

  I gave no explanation, I could not, I only said—“If all the babies sleep in peace nurse, all is well.”

  Outside the House

  If I say I was just engaged to be married, you will forgive my thus intruding my own affairs for a moment because, through being engaged, I was led into the most curious happening of my life. I had been in France some two and a half years before the bit of shell met me, which landed me back in Blighty, with a leg that was not going to be of much more service to me. I had had many and varied experiences in France—horrors, of course—but of these we do not often speak, much of deep interest, and much which goes to the furthering of knowledge of many kinds— knowledge which has led thousands of men to get down to realities—and to shun for evermore the superficial shams which made up their existences before 1914—but this is not a war story, except in so far that it transformed me, an officer in a well-known regiment, into a very ordinary civilian, with a game leg, and fathoms deep in love with the sweet child who nursed me—Elsie Falconer was my nurse—in the stately Home of England in which I and my mangled leg found ourselves after a long, troublesome journey.

  It was a home—there are many such, especially in the south of England—given up by their owners to needs of “wounded.” Homes, where, in many cases gallant young heirs have laid down their lives for king and country, leaving none to inherit the stately borne which for so many generations had belonged to their honoured name— so it comes to pass, that the old house is metamorphosed into a well-equipped hospital, strict routine taking the place of former hunting, shooting, and careless living.

  It was a wonderfully beautiful old grey stone house, with an old-world garden; no money was spared, no labour was withheld to make it what it was now, a well-worked comfortable happy hospital.

  I had been there some six weeks in the hands of an austere but clever elderly nurse, before Elsie was given charge of me. She was a joy to look at, to talk to, to joke with—but, she was not a nurse—Some women are born nurses—some have nursing thrust upon them—and some achieve nursing—Elsie was none of these, but she was very sweet, very sympathetic, and it was a delight to watch her little fingers bandage my poor leg, though I would not for wo
rlds have let her guess the agonies I endured until, in her time off, I could capture the sister, and beg a little relief, saying my bandages were not quite tight enough. Sister would smile, and being a sport, keep her own counsel.

  It was an easy matter to step from sympathetic companionship into love-making—lots of us men have done it—perhaps some will find, to their sorrow, though each man says “That will not be me.” Not the least pleasurable part of it was a friendship I formed in hospital with a man whom chance placed in the bed next to mine.

  It was one of those friendships which come into some lives at the first meeting of the eyes, without a word spoken—something that makes one’s innermost mind think the words, “At last!”—as if one knew that into one’s life had come something hitherto wholly lacking. In this way came my friendship with Percy Hesketh, and as the weeks of our hospital life passed on, we drew even closer, making a compact that, if either should fall on the battlefield, he would endeavour to communicate with the other. The end of my third month in that stately home found me, with my discharge papers, a stiff leg, and a dear little girl, my promised wife.

  Elsie did not wish to give up her nursing, so I agreed to wait patiently a while, and when she met me one morning armed with an invitation from her people to spend a month with them to convalesce—adding that she would take her holidays at home during the month—I felt that my lines had fallen in pleasant places.

  It was the morning of my departure from the hospital that I noticed the first shadow I had ever seen on my little girl’s face. I asked her what was the trouble, and her reply was somewhat vague. “I was wondering,” she said, “how you will feel at my home.”