Gaslit Nightmares

by Lamb, Hugh;

  ‘I made haste to apologise fully, and gladly availed myself of her offer to make the remittance. I thought how pleased dear mother and Maggie would be to receive my first earnings, and I took the five sovereigns to Agnes to get changed into a note by one of the tradesmen. Then I wrote my letter, and submitted it to Miss Mure, who at once approved it, though it took her some time to read it. When Agnes brought up the note I took the number and date, at Miss Mure’s suggestion, and also the name of the last owner, “H. Fletcher,” scrawled on the back, and stated them upon the receipt I gave her; then in her presence and in that of Agnes I put the note and the letter in the envelope, sealed it with black wax, and at once went with Agnes to the front gate to find a boy to post it. At Miss Mure’s suggestion we stayed there, and watched him take it to and drop it in the box, then gave him another penny when he came back. I never was so pleased as when I saw the boy drop the letter in. I felt quite content to remain with Miss Mure, and I told Agnes so. She did not say anything. I added that though we had no friends in London, a friend of mine had, and no doubt I should have an invitation from them, and leave for a few days at Christmas. “Oh no, you won’t!” said Agnes. “I’ve been here fourteen year last Febry, and it ain’t the fust time I’ve seen this trick played. Don’t I remember poor Miss Jo? Why, ’er stood here just as you, she talked about goin’ ’ome in a fortnight; but ‘er took bad and died; and ’er went ‘ome from the mortrey, ’er did. The missis ain’t never so dangerous as when her’s nice, that’s it, miss. It ain’t her fault, but I’m sorry for yer, I am.”

  ‘No sooner were we back in the house than Miss Mure called me. I hastened to her, and she held out to me the note I had sent in the letter, and laughingly asked me why I had forgotten to enclose it. There it was, the number and the name both corresponded with those I had taken of the one I was sure I had enclosed to mother. “Have you sent the real note or only the phantom?” she asked. I was too confused to reply. “Well, we will wait until we hear from your home,” she said with a smile, and motioned me to leave the room.

  ‘I have had a long talk with Agnes; she refused to say anything about the event of the other evening, but says I shall “see what I shall see.” I cannot make out at all what became of the other girls; but as to my fate, Agnes makes no secret of what she believes is in store for me. “If I was you, miss, I should pray. I should; it can’t do no harm to you, and it’ll make yer ’appy. Why don’t I pray? It ain’t much use prayin’ when the copper ’ave ‘is ’and on yer shoulder, is it? I ‘adn’t. If I’d gone to quod it’d only been for life at the wust. But Agnes Coley’d had one taste, and her d’ain’t want two, so ‘er chivvied the beak, and ’as ‘er liberty – livin’ alone in a cellar with a bloomin’ crocerdile, that’s what ’er’s doin”.’

  ‘ “But I have not ’chivvied the beak”,’ and I am here,’ I argued.

  ‘ “ ’Course yer‘aven’t. It’s yer fate, that’ all. You won’t be here for a couple o’ bloomin’ stretches fightin’ for yer livin’ with a stinkin’ crocerdile. You’ll be a hangel long afore that.”

  ‘ “But, Agnes, tell me why must I be an angel? If what you tell me is true, I do not think poor Miss Mure and her friends want angels, they seem to choose such very opposite characters for their acquaintance.”

  ‘ “Look ’ere, miss, ’t ain’t that missis wants yer to become a hangel; yer’ll become a hangel ’cause it’s yer nature.”

  ‘ “I do not understand you.”

  ‘ “Well, see ’ere. S‘pose – only s’pose a’ course – s’pose that there thing yer call the ‘orror were to come here, and be put in ’Salymandy,’ and you in ’Caduceus,’ with only a bit a’ tishy paper a dividin’ yer room from his ’n. Don’t yer think yer’d soon be a hangel thin?”

  ‘I shuddered.

  ‘ “Yer’d better pray, miss; though it ain’t for the likes o’ me to tell you to pray – if I’d a pray’d for fourteen year instead o’ carryin’ on as I’ve been doin‘ – but there, it ain’t no use cryin’ over spilt milk.’

  ‘ “But why should the horror be brought here at all?”

  ‘ “You ask that? Well, I should ’ave thought you’d a knowed. There was poor Miss Jo, a nice girl she was, and she used to tell me that what the hinner cercle was after was the makin’ o’ summat different to ‘omunclusses, and as how, when all things was properishus, they’d try agen and agen until they did get somethin’ fresh. We was great in mandrakes in them days, miss, and some hawful things I’ve seen in this house. Poor Miss Jo, ‘er was a dear good girl, just like yerself; but I found her ’alf dead in ‘Caduceus,’ and the dwerger what used to be here ain’t been nigh since that. You do put me in mind o’ Miss Jo, miss, you do.”

  ‘I did not quite understand Agnes at first, but soon the import of much I had read to Miss Mure seemed clear to me.

  ‘You pretend to like me, Agnes, I said. Why did you not help Miss Jo, if you liked her as you say you did?’

  ‘ “That’s it, miss, I ain’t no good. When the time is properishus I could no more stir a finger to help yer than Sivvy could if yer tumbled in a vat o’ bilin’ oil.”

  ‘ “Then if you believe that, and wish to help me, let me escape from here at once.” I clung to her arm, for I felt a fear I had never before experienced.

  ‘ “No, miss, that wouldn’t save yer, and it’d be worse than death to me. I ‘ain’t live ‘ere fourteen year for nothin’. I’ve ‘erd all that before. Yer a brave girl, you are, braver than Miss Jo, but I s’pose it’ll be the same with you as with the rest.”

  ‘We were silent for some time.

  ‘ “Agnes, will you tell me – will you let me know – if that thing ever comes here again?”

  ‘ “I can’t promise, miss.”

  ‘ “If only I could get a few days I could escape,” I said in despair.

  ‘ “No, yer couldn’t. There was that Miss Vanover who got out of a Russian prison, trying for months to escape from ’ere, and ‘er never could. Besides, ’ow do you know ‘e ain’t here now? What would you do if you met ’im on the stairs to-night?”

  ‘I screamed.

  ‘ “Be quiet, or I’ll let Sivvy in. You’d better go to bed now.”

  ‘ “Oh, do help me, Agnes!” I pleaded.

  ‘ “And ’aven’t I helped yer? ‘Aven’t I warned yer of yer fate? Ain’t it because I like you I’ve told yer what I ’ave? You do what I told you.”

  ‘I came upstairs, and have written, and now feel more trustful. Surely mother’s prayers will avail with the good God, and His angels will guard me.

  ‘I slept soundly that night, but the last two days my terror has increased. I notice just those indications of a forthcoming meeting which immediately preceded the last séance, and the passages we have read in the books of magic have prepared me for the attempt which I feel certain will be made. Agnes has taken me, for the first time, into “Caduceus,” and shewn me the window bars which were bent by Miss Jo in her frantic endeavours to escape, and I have peeped into the adjoining cupboard, “Salamander,” which is arranged more like a stall for a beast than a bedroom for a human creature. It is divided by the flimsiest of partitions from “Caduceus,” and there is a door communicating which I could easily break down. I have a letter from mother acknowledging the receipt of my remittance,2 and containing some words of encouragement which I shall lay to heart. I showed the letter to Miss Mure, and read it to her. She smiled and said she hoped I was now satisfied. Unfortunately I am not.

  ‘Last night I sustained another shock. I was again in that downstairs room where I spend so much of my time, fearing to see that horror once more, yet always on the lookout for it; it would be still worse if it came to the house unknown to me. A two-wheeled cart of funny shape, like that used for delivering pianofortes, stopped at the gate. Four men were on it. I recognised the tread of one at once, he was the burly, butcher-like man who had waited on the flags when the woman was dragged away. I was again locked in the room by Agnes, who however di
d not retreat to her kitchen, but fetched lights, and the men brought from the vehicle a large coffin. Their burden seemed heavy. They spoke in low whispers, and once inside the house the door was shut. They they conveyed the coffin upstairs, and I heard their irregular tramp across the landing. From the manner in which the coffin was handled I knew that it was not empty.

  ‘Did it contain the corpse of the woman whom less than a week ago I had seen forcibly dragged from the house? Or was it intended for me? Did it contain the living horror, smuggled thus into the house so that I should not know of its coming?

  ‘The men were not long upstairs, and soon descended and drove away. Agnes went straight to her kitchen without unfastening the door of the room in which I was. I called and knocked, but obtained no reply.

  ‘It was nearly midnight when the door communicating with the drawing-room opened, and Miss Mure beckoned to me to follow her. We went upstairs, and she told me that my room had been changed. I was to sleep henceforth in “Caduceus,” whither my things had already been conveyed.

  “She showed me into the room and left me there with less than a half inch of candle, locking the door upon me. I at once attempted to barricade the flimsy door which divided my room from the ”pen,“ but the result was unsatisfactory. Then I looked for my Bible, but none of my books appeared to have been brought into the room. It did not take long to search the small apartment, and my things were so few that the books must have been left behind purposely. There was no bedstead in the room, but in its place was a long settle like a boxed-in bath or water cistern, and of the top of this a straw mattress was laid and the bed made; a long curtain, hanging over a pole swung above the middle of the bed in the French fashion, hid the want of a bedstead. Suddenly it occurred to me that the coffin had been placed in the locker under my bed. For some minutes I was too frightened at the thought to do more than stare blankly at the bed. When I commenced to lift up the palliasse the candle gave a warning flicker, and I was in utter darkness before I could make even a cursory examination of the locker. Left without light and with the apartment in disorder, I sat in a half dazed condition on the first chair into which I could drop; straining my eyes to see further into the darkness and and my ears to catch a sound from the next room. In a short time I succeeded in frightening myself completely. I heard, or thought I heard, the peculiar grunting of the horror, and I flung myself against the door from my room, hoping to break it down, but the effort was useless, and I again sank helplessly into the chair. It was whilst listening breathlessly for the sounds I so well remembered, that my attention was distracted by a sigh, as the soughing of the wind, from the box bed before me. I looked in that direction, and in the pitchy blackness saw a bright white figure, first its head projecting through the lid of the box, or the bottom of the bed, then slowly it arose – a corpse fully dressed out in its grave clothes, with livid face, fallen jaw, and wide-open glassy eyes staring vacantly before it. Very many strange things I had seen since staying at Miss Mure’s, but no spectre so struck me with terror as did this one. I felt that I could not stay there with it. I sprang up, and whilst my gaze was riveted upon it fell back towards the door of ”Salamander“ and groped for the fastenings. The door yielded to my pressure, and scrambling over my box I entered the little pen or cupboard, which was associated in my mind with the thing I most dreaded. In the delirium of terror I felt that I must reach Agnes, but I had sufficient sense to clutch at the bed coverlet as I escaped from my room. The door from “Salamander” was unlocked, and without stopping to think I sped along the corridor and hurried downstairs, groping my way more slowly in the less known hall and passages leading to the kitchen. The door had no lock – in this very old part of the house a drop latch was the only fastening – and by working away perseveringly the stop peg Agnes stuck in above the latch would drop out. I knew Siva would be near, and had the coverlet ready to throw over her, but when I gently opened the door and peered in I saw Siva was perched half on a chair and half on the kitchen table still and dumb, whilst before the fire there stood the figure of a man from whom the skin had been removed. It was like an anatomical figure designed to show the muscles; its grinning face, prominent teeth, and colourless scalp were doubly horrible in the glow of the dying fire. As it turned its head to look at me the last spark of hope died in my heart, and with a loud scream I fell forward on the floor and fainted.

  ‘When I recovered consciousness I was again on the bed in “Caduceus.” The light of a foggy morning showed that the room was empty, and some untouched breakfast was on a tray by my bedside. Was the adventure of last night a dream or a reality?

  ‘I arose and went at once downstairs and wrote up my journal. When I went there again, in the dusk of the early evening, a young woman was sitting in an obscure corner: I bowed to her, and took up my accustomed position at the front window. She crossed over to me, and sat by my side. I felt pleased that she did so, and soon we commenced a conversation. I learned that her name was Maisie, and she told me that she understood my fears, and that in time I should be free of them. Her face seemed familiar, her voice was sweet, and manner gentle and subdued. I could learn nothing concerning Miss Mure, and Maisie told me that she could never see me in her presence, but she would be in that room frequently, and possibly she could come to me occasionally in my new room.

  ‘I told her of my dread of that room, and of the great fear I entertained that the cupboard next to it would be tenanted by the creature who was sometimes brought there. She told me it was wrong to anticipate trouble, the danger was less real than I imagined. I spoke of what I had seen from that window, and she shuddered when I described the struggles of the woman who had been dragged away. I commenced to tell her of what I had seen brought back the night before, but she prevented me with an impatient gesture. I dropped the subject, but soon the thoughts which were uppermost in mind were again the topic of my tale, and I told her of the spectre I had seen arise from beneath my bed. She arose abruptly, and, with a sad wave of the hand, left the room by the door leading to the passage. I remained there musing, and hoping that she would soon return. The darkness and loneliness became oppressive. I sought Agnes, but I dared not speak to her of Maisie, and as we had little to say to each other, she went to bed early.

  ‘That night I barely slept at all, the remembrance of my adventures the night before, or the too vivid nature of my dream, prevented slumber. I may have dozed several times, but I had no sleep until daylight broke, when I fell into a troubled slumber. When in the afternoon I again entered the downstairs room Maisie was there. Her presence cheered me; she said but little, and all too soon she went. I am pleased with the companionship of Maisie; sometimes I find her in my bedroom, but there she is always more sad than when downstairs, and I barely notice her coming and going. She glides in and out as a ghost might. My manner, likely enough, is the same. Today, when I looked in the mirror, I was horrified at my appearance. My face is pallid as death, and set in its frame of hay-coloured hair, and with two violet eyes shining like burning coals, I doubt whether it would not frighten a visitor as much as any real spectre could do.

  ‘Something tells me I am not long for this world; I think of mother and Maggie, and burst into tears. They will miss me. If it were not for them I think I should like to be at rest; but when I think about it “a strange perplexity creeps coldly on me, like a fear to die.” I have talked about this to Maisie, and she answered peremptorily that I must not die here. “You know not what it means to die in this place.” I looked at her earnestly. Was she real? The words of Dryden came imperatively into my mind –

  ‘ “Oh! ’t is a fearful thing to be no more.

  Or if it be, to wander after death; allday;

  To walk, as spirits do, in brakes all day;

  And when the darkness comes, to glide in paths

  That lead to graves; and in the silent vault, o ‘er it,

  Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o’er it,

  Striving to enter your forbidden corpse.”<
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  ‘I looked tearfully at Maisie; she did not reply, but her face was ineffably sad. As I cried piteously, “Oh, Maisie! Maisie!” she left the room hastily.

  ‘I saw her again when I went to my room; her face was still troubled, but she drew me towards her affectionately, and we talked together for a long time of love, and trust, and of beauty. The pale moonlight shone into the room, and by its faint glimmer Maisie’s face seemed truly beautiful; but for the first time I noticed that her hands were coarse, and that upon the wrist of one there was the scratch I had seen on the arm of the woman who had been dragged from the house on that terrible evening a fortnight ago. She smiled when she saw that I noticed the scar, but offered no explanation. It seemed to alter the thread of our discourse, for she talked to me of my position in the house, of the heavy work she had to do on the morrow. It would be best for me to go, if I really wished. I told her how I dreaded the next meeting, and how anxious I was to escape. For some minutes she was silent; she then said it would be hard to part from me, but tomorrow, if I would trust her, she would show me how to escape. I was to follow her in silence, soon after midnight, and must promise not to speak to her. I expressed my readiness to do all that she wished, and commenced at once to think out my plans for getting my things together in readiness. She said that she was tired, and with my permission would rest for a time on my bed. She lay down, and after looking at her for a time I turned away and watched the moon and the slowly-floating clouds. I must have dozed, for when I again looked for her I found that she had disappeared.

  ‘When I awoke in the morning it was already late, but I should have slept on had not the noise of strange footsteps on the landing disturbed me. I dressed hastily, and upon leaving my room was in time to see two men dragging the coffin from under my bed through a door in the wooden partition which divided the room from the landing. I waited and saw that it was taken to the séance room.