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

by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor

  “Did you ring, Sir?” she asked, in rasping tones.

  “Eh, yes,” I said “I’ve had an accident and torn my coat, I shall be obliged if someone will mend it.”

  She took it without answering, and I continued dressing until she reappeared saying—

  “I’ve done what I could, Sir, it’s a tailor’s job, but it may do until you leave.”

  “Until I leave?” I said, somewhat startled.

  “Yes, Sir,” she replied. “You’ll be leaving I expect. It’s no use staying, Sir, when things like that begin to happen,” pointing to my coat as she spoke.

  I was about to try a question, softened by a half-crown, when there was a sharp knock at the door, and another maid entered with a salver on which lay a wire. With a murmured “Thanks” I ripped it open, reading—

  Coming today, why don’t you do as you are told. Elsie.

  Forgotten were the horrors of last night, forgotten torn coats, rules, regulations, everything, in the delight of my little girl’s coming. I thanked the two women, flung on my coat, whistling like a schoolboy, as I tramped to the hall on my way to breakfast.

  A curious restraint met me—something indefinable, a kind of lack of genuineness in the “Good-mornings” I received, which gave, me a feeling of being in disgrace, but no amount of that was going to damp my spirits, so I ignored it, though don’t mind admitting the chill rather spoilt the morning, and I was not sorry to escape with a pipe to have a look at a timetable. Mrs. Falconer did not appear during the morning which did not unduly worry me, but when Mr. Falconer asked me to be good enough to follow him to his study, I had visions of the birch-rod, and my footsteps lagged as befitted my part, when I obeyed his request. He asked me to be seated, but instead of a whipping, he mildly said—

  “John, Elsie will arrive at 12. 40, will you drive to meet her?”

  “Thanks very much, I was hoping to,” I answered.

  “She knows,” he went on, “that you—er—that you—had an unpleasant night. I regret that you do not seem able to take us as we are obliged to be, and I admit it is difficult to make one’s guests understand and respect our arrangements for their welfare, without explanations, which we are not permitted to give; for Elsie’s sake, I warn you, less worse befall, to conform to rule.” This was a whipping without a doubt; and I felt a qualm of conscience as he spoke, knowing, as I did, my pig-headed temperament and determination to know more.

  I thanked him, offered him a cigarette, but evaded any promises, though he eyed me questioningly as if he awaited something of the kind.

  The next few hours I passed aimlessly, wandering about alone, since one and all of the party seemed bent on avoiding me. I had a stroll to the low lawn; though, bathed in sunshine, it looked peaceful and serene, making me wonder vaguely had I dreamed the horrid fantasy. I was glad when the hour came to meet my little girl. I enjoyed the swift run. I was glad beyond measure to see her bright face at the railway carriage window.

  “You are looking fit, old boy,” she said; adding, without any hesitancy, “in spite of your silly tricks last night.”

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “Mother wired me to come,” she replied, “and take charge of you, as you had been out too late. I knew all that meant;” she said, with a shudder.

  “Will you tell me about it, Kiddie?” I coaxed, but her little face took a graver look, as she answered:

  “No, John, I can’t; you must just trust us and do as we do. Stay with me, dear, this evening; never mind trying to fathom things, others have tried before you. Promise me you will not think of it anymore.”

  “Dear child, I’m a man with a thinking machine. I can’t promise not to think,” I said.

  “Well, promise you won’t stay out after time,” she said.

  “Very well,” I assented, “I’ll promise that.”

  She nestled to my side in dear content at that, and our drive back was a happy one.

  Elsie was greeted with happy comradeship on our arrival, so lunch was a more cheery meal, and the afternoon was passed as usual, in a rest, a stroll, and tea beneath the old trees on the low lawn. At five, as usual, a general move was made to the house. Elsie held out her hand to me, merely saying:“Come, John;” but, man-like, I wanted to remain, and was reluctant to obey that little outstretched hand, but gave in with a good grace, consenting to be imprisoned for the rest of the summer evening within the glassed garden. To a man accustomed to be out of doors, the enforced imprisonment palled, despite the games, music, gay talk, and general attempt to keep things cheery.

  Little Miss Dorcas and her charges joined us for a while; and I had an idea, that if I could get her alone, she would perhaps give me some information. I would try; so invited her to a putting match, leaving Elsie to chat to her mother.

  “You are playing wildly, major,” said my partner, in a few moments.

  “Yes,” I answered, “I’m afraid my thoughts were ‘outside,’ and not in. I had a strange evening last evening, you know.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I hope it is one that will not be repeated.”

  “Oh no,” I answered, “I’m not likely to repeat it.”

  “I suppose not,” she replied, “at least not in that way.”

  “That way?” I asked. “What do you mean, is there any other way?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” she answered, gravely. “Oh! Mrs. Falconer is watching us,” she said, suddenly—“play, oh, do play! I’ll try and say something while we play. I don’t think it is right to keep you in ignorance of your danger; they do, and no one will warn you.”

  “Tell me,” I muttered, as I played.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “She is coming across, look in the books on your shelf tonight. There! I’ve won,” she said, in the same breath, as she waved her putter in triumph, just as Mrs. Falconer came up.

  “Don’t overdo it, John,” she said. “Elsie is waiting for you, and the children are getting tired, Miss Dorcas.”

  So our game and little talk came to an abrupt end. From then on, I was given no chance for talks, except with Elsie; but when we separated to dress for dinner, and I found myself ’ alone, I pondered deeply over a quiet pipe. “Warn me of my danger” Miss Dorcas had said, then there was there danger, whether I ventured outside or not? And the bookshelf, that probably meant a note. Surely I was safe inside, I thought, for I was fully determined to get the iron shutter out of my way. Well, I would leave it now, and, as they say, “wait and see.”

  Dinner was cheery, but I was rapidly beginning to detest the Indoor Garden, with its continual constraint, and made up my mind to press for an early wedding and take my little girl to more congenial surroundings. The evening drew to a close at last! though I was happy with Elsie, and, in a secluded corner, had asked and carried my point of an early wedding.

  By 10. 30 all had dispersed; indeed, I am certain all hated the enforced seclusion as much in their hearts as I did. I bid them all “Goodnight!” and, with a sigh of relief, flung myself into the armchair in my cosy bedroom. My eyes suddenly fell on to a book, slightly awry on the shelf, and I sprang up as quickly as my lame leg permitted, and took it down; a tiny note which lay between the pages read thus:

  You have given a loop-hole and are waited for, take care you are not taken ‘outside the house.’ Keep from your windows.—J. D.

  “Ho! ho!” I said; “‘keep from my windows.’ That little warning gives me a clue, but surely, if I do not open them, all will be well. I only desire to see through them, and what’s more, I will.” I took my coat off, mounted a chair with difficulty, managing to seat myself sideways on the broad window-ledge, armed with my files, and a soft cloth, to dull the sound as much as possible. Luckily the file was sharp, and the metal soft, and in a short time I had made a deep dent. It was now 11. 30, all was silent, presumably the whole house was wrapt in slumber. Steadily I worked for another half-hour; the hasp was almost through.

  I paused for a brief rest. As I paused, there sprang i
nto being, probably from my sub-conscience, the thought: “Suppose real danger did lie in wait for me, suppose some horror undreamed of should cost me my life, or, worse, my reason, and none knew of this attempt of mine to lay bare a secret so carefully guarded.” I prolonged my rest sufficiently to climb from my window-sill, add a few lines to my carefully kept notes of events since I came here, put the bundle of papers in a long envelope, sealed it, and addressed it to Captain Percy Hesketh. Having done which, I remounted the window-sill and endeavoured to complete my task. There seemed some slight hesitancy in my movements, probably because I was now nearing the goal I had set out to win. I braced myself and started again.

  How still it was, though the wind seemed to have risen a little. I could hear it moaning round the corner of the house, fitfully, as if a sudden summer storm was coming up. The hasp bent, gave way, and came in two in my fingers. Gently I moved the heavy shutter, an inch—it creaked—creaked, it seemed to me, loudly enough to wake the “seven sleepers.” Did I imagine it, or did I hear a step overhead. I must hurry. I scrambled down, switched off all lights, climbed up again, and waited breathlessly. All was silent. Carefully I slid down on to the chair below me, and cautiously drew the shutter back a couple of inches more, then waited,—still all quiet—swung it wide—CRACK!

  I dimly remember calling Percy, calling with my soul more than with my voice.

  ******

  When next I remembered anything, it was to become conscious that I was in a bed in a bright, lofty room, a white-capped nurse was by my bed, holding a glass. Percy Hesketh was sitting by my side—a fact which gave me joy without an atom of surprise. It was as if I had expected him to be there.

  “If you swallow this, you may say a few words,” said the nurse.

  I swallowed it, and gave my hand into the warm grasp of my friend.

  “John,” he said, “I have your papers. Try to tell me what followed the cracking of the pane of glass.”

  Feebly, haltingly, I tried, as I stumblingly, shudderingly, told him:

  “Following the crack, the window splintered before my eyes, from top to bottom. I bent back, expecting to be covered with

  falling glass. It did not fall, but a pale, unearthly light illuminated it, lighting up to my horrified-gaze, faces pressed against the window peering in upon me, but faces such as I never in life beheld. They were dark, almost black, with sunken, fiercely gleaming eyes, the cheekbones protruding, flesh sunken, looking almost like living skeletons, save for the skin which stretched tightly over the bones; anger, despair, ferocity, hunger, terror—all were depicted upon those awful faces.

  “Through the cracked glass, deadly fumes began to steal, my room seemed cloudy, I was as if transfixed, unable to move, to call, to reach the lights, to do aught but stand staring, tremblingly. The faces pressed closer and yet closer; they reached the glass, it cracked again, and more fumes poured in; long arms (there seemed hundreds of them) reached wildly up, skinny hands, like those of skeletons, were held out as if to grasp. I tried to step back to get away from the window, as with a terrific crash, the glass fell in. Arms and hands stretched through, faces came nearer, nearer—I felt myself seized, held, lifted, drawn upwards.

  “I was on the windowsill again, held in an inexorable grip. I felt myself lifted through, felt the cold air on my face, was just able to discern the hurrying figures in the thick mist, and to know, beyond all doubt, that I was being borne swiftly, by clawlike hands, towards the low lawn.”

  (Continued by Captain Percy Hesketh):

  As my poor friend uttered his final words, he sank back into my arms in a state of unconsciousness, from which he never fully recovered, though in the many hours of watching over him, which were permitted by the hospital staff, I witnessed again and again the agony of mind and horror he passed through.

  My painful task it was to bring the girl he loved to his bedside, to witness her grief, as he failed to remember her name, or face, all my life I shall remember that afternoon.

  The sun was shining on the floor of the ward—lighting up stray corners and patches, as I gently led Elsie Falconer to my friend’s bedside. He was sitting up, laughingly pointing to the sunny patches, babbling about the funny light. He took no notice of the girl, beyond asking me: “Why does that girl cry?”

  “Do you know her, John?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied, “but she is pretty, tell her look to at the funny patches, then she will laugh. Take her away,” he added, “she cries.”

  Nurse led the weeping girl away, and I was thankful she had gone. One or another came to see him, it was always the same, no glimmer of memory seemed to return, though at times he would make a little more sensible remark.

  One day he spoke to me, saying:

  “Who was the old man who called me ‘John’? I’m not ‘John.’ I wish my brains wouldn’t keep running round and round like a glass ball full of colours. I could listen to people if the glass ball would keep still,” he rambled on, and, uneasy and fearful, I called the nurse. I saw by her face, it was the end, as, with sudden strength, he flung himself against the pillows, shouting as loudly as he could:

  “Hark! there are the guns, at it again, are they—give me my rifle, I’ll show them. Now boys, come on—over the top, and at ’em.” They were his last words, and the day after the following notice appeared in the papers:—

  On September 30th, at the Hospital,

  Singleton, Major John Longworth, M. C.,

  after four years’ service, from shock, following

  an accident, aged 39.

  ******

  Some years later, I ventured to read through my late friend’s notes of the experience which cost him his life, and to rewrite them to the best of my ability, for this, I believe, was what he wished done.

  It cost me an effort to revisit the scenes of such horror; even after a lapse of years, but I desired also to learn, if I could, what really was the story of the place which my friend—bravely, though foolishly—gave his life to discover.

  The landlord of the village inn gave me the story, as told to him by his grandfather, who knew the former tenants of the house. It seems the family had owned all the coal mines round, for generations, growing more and more wealthy as the years passed. The former owner, grandfather of my friend Francis, was an avaricious man, hard and grasping.

  There was warning given, one day, of danger in the mine nearest to the house, warning that it was unsafe to permit the men to descend. Old Falconer, with his greed for money, preferred to risk men’s lives rather than lose by delay, and ignored the warning—in fact had it contradicted— and the men went down—to their death—some four hundred of them. Old Falconer added to his crime, by refusing to spend money for rescue work, saying it was useless, that the earth had closed the mine completely. Apparently it had, though there were those who told of groans and shrieks coming from the bowels of the earth.

  Falconer went on his way, disregarding all that was said, and in time the ground above the buried mine was cultivated, and turned into a lawn, below the level of the house.

  When the old man died, he passed on the dire legacy to his sons, leaving them the whole of his fortune on condition that they lived in the house, making them promise that none on the premises would be out of the house after five in the evening, stating that the entombed men haunted the place.

  None ever knew what the old man had seen or heard, but it is said that the miners had slowly starved to death, and could have been rescued at the time, but now haunted the place, intent upon finding victims to drag below with them. There had, said the landlord, been one or two sad happenings, but the worst trouble was the most recent, when a Major Longworth, M. C., who was engaged to Miss Falconer, and who had been severely wounded in France, came to stay with the family, and did not rest until he had witnessed the whole of the awful happenings.

  Mr. Falconer was awakened in the night, it is said, by the sound of shattering glass, and rushed into Major Longworth’s room in time to see hi
m borne away towards the ill-fated lawn. The big hound, kept on the place, was loosed, and dashed across the lawn, in which a vast crack had appeared. Mr. Falconer described a furious fight for the body of Major Longworth, between the hound and something unseen, but that the hound succeeded in hauling the body out of the crack in the ground, into which it appeared to be slipping, dragging it, mauled and bleeding, back to the house.

  “Major Longworth died in the hospital, here, sir,” went on my garrulous host, “and Miss Falconer entered a nursing sisterhood. “People say the house will collapse someday—have a look at it, sir, if you’ve time, before it gets late.”

  I thanked him, and went my way. I found the house, desolate and dilapidated. The vast glasshouse on one side of it, full of dead plants and broken chairs—dirty beyond description. The gardens were a tangle of briars and weeds, the paths had become mere grass tracks. The Low Lawn, grown rank and rough, its greenness marred by a vast blackened crack right across it, as if a subsidence had taken place.

  A brooding sense of mystery and disaster hangs over the place; nor do I hesitate to believe when I hear on all sides how the place is shunned, still less can I doubt my friend’s written words of all that befell him in spite of all warnings to conform to orders, and not venture—

  “Outside the House”

  . . . . about the country. No! not with Miss Wood, but with Miss Brown. I fulfilled Mrs. Stuart’s prophecy, spoken in jest—and ended by adoring her.

  We talked over the haunting of her house until it was threadbare, but knowing, as we both do, the ghastly three nights which takes place in that room every autumn, we have decided, or rather I have decided, that if she will tolerate a somewhat dry, old book-worm, we might make “High Crags” a very cheery abode together; but we both say emphatically, we must find that grave, restore that jewel, or entirely pull down Room No. 10.