The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories

by Simon Stern

  “What day in December did he die?” I asked curiously.

  “He was found dead on the morning of the 22nd of December, and since then no one has passed a Christmas in the house,” was the answer.

  For a moment my heart beat faster, and I was stirred by a feeling of dread, then my common sense got the mastery of the idle superstition, and I said, “Well, I intend taking up my abode at Number 19, and shall certainly give any ghosts who feel inclined to play hanky-panky tricks with me a warm welcome.”

  “I can assure you, Doctor,” cried the little house agent, seriously, “that if you show the people that these stories are mere nonsense you will be doing a public service.”

  After I left Hunt and went on my professional round I found that I was looked upon as quite a hero, and a very imprudent one, too. At nearly every house I was asked if it were true that I had taken Number 19, Great Hanover street, and when I replied in the affirmative I had a repetition of the solemn warning given me by the Prices. It amused me intensely. How the house was haunted, whether by sounds or spectres none could tell me. All they did was to shake their heads and repeat the stories of the deaths that had taken place there. I ventured to remark that it might only be a coincidence people dying there on the one date, but my remark was treated with derisive sniffs.

  The time passed quickly, the house was finished, and as no expense had been spared over it, it looked splendid. So bright and cheerful, the sun gaily streamed into all the rooms, birds sang in the garden; in short, as I surveyed the place I thought what an idiot I should have been to have let any superstitious nonsense stand in my way of renting such a suitable residence. Anne had arrived with all my goods and chattels. The only thing that annoyed me was that not a Slominster girl would accept service in the house. It was an easy place. I offered high wages, but nothing would induce a local girl to come. They all said the same thing, “I’d come in the daytime, but I wouldn’t sleep in Number 19 for wealth untold.”

  Fortunately for me Anne was an eminently practical woman. I had told her of the reputation that the house had, and she laughed with me at the idea of some people believing in such rubbish, so when she found that Slominster servants would not come she wrote to two of her cousins who wanted situations, and engaged them, and when they came they were as much amused as she and I were at the idea of ghosts.

  Soon the house was put to rights, and it was the admiration of all my friends who called to see me. The plate-glass windows were veiled with the daintiest of lace curtains, flowers were scattered about. The street door, which stood hospitably open, showed a wide tesselated marble hall, littered with skin rugs and furnished in carved oak. Altogether it needed but one thing only—and that was a lady to preside over it and share it with me. My patients used the side door in the garden, and a red lamp was conspicuously placed over the gate, with the word “Surgery” on it.

  As time passed on, I was more and more charmed with the house. The most timid person could not have detected even a suspicious sound. The wind never howled or moaned in the chimneys in an objectionable manner; doors never opened ghostily. In short, it was as quiet and as well regulated as a house could possibly be.

  My practice was also growing apace. I had been fortunate enough to perform a couple of very intricate operations successfully, and it had got my name well up with the local medical men. My consulting hours at home were from 9 to 10 in the morning, 2 to 3 in the afternoon, and 6.30 to 8.30 in the evening. During the latter two hours I was generally kept very busy. Sometimes I used to go out for a stroll after 8.30, but if I were tired I stayed in my consulting-room, and had a quiet rest and read.

  I liked this room very much. It was large, had a southerly aspect, and the outlook in the garden, was exceedingly pleasant. My lady friends declared that it was the snuggest as well as the best furnished room in the house. It had an oak suite upholstered in crimson leather, and I had as well several very large and delightfully cosy easy chairs scattered about. Heavy velvet curtains draped the door, and successfully shut out all draughts; one side of the wall was lined with book shelves, filled with the works of my favourite authors, as well as the various scientific books needed in my profession. In the alcoves by the handsome black marble fireplace were carved oak cabinets, in which I blush to confess was a small but choice collection of wines, spirits, and cigars, comforts very dear to the heart of man. The long bay window looked, as I have said before, into the garden, and altogether it was a most comfortable room.

  Things went on very happily and smoothly, and I constantly congratulated myself on my wisdom in not allowing superstition to have any influence over me. The winter of 1884 was an unusually severe one in Slominster, and I was kept exceedingly busy, so much so, that I had to decline all invitations for social enjoyments, and was seriously thinking of the advisability of taking a partner.

  It wanted but a few days to Christmas. A patient of mine was dangerously ill, and I went to see her at night about 10 o’clock. When I returned home I let myself in with my latch key, for it was one of the strict domestic rules that was rigidly adhered to, that the servants, including Anne, went to bed punctually at 10. I strolled into the consulting room, kicked off my boots, lit a cigar, and sat down to have a good long read and rest, for I rarely if ever retire till the small hours of morning. Nip, my fox-terrier, a pure-bred dog, and my constant and most faithful companion lay at my feet. I suppose that I must have dozed off, for suddenly I was awakened by the book dropping from my hand, and at that moment came a howl of terror from the dog. “Nip, old boy,” I said, “it’s all right,” but to my astonishment I saw that he was standing upright, his hair positively bristling with fear, his ears thrown back, and every now and again he emitted the most blood curdling howls.

  I looked round, there was absolutely nothing to see to account for the dog’s terror. I went to my desk, took a revolver from the drawer, and called Nip to follow me, but he could only stand shaking an abject object of fear. I picked him up in my arms, and went into the passage. There his howls were fearful, and his eyes seemed starting out of their sockets, but still there was nothing to see. When I got to the front portion of the house he was quiet. I looked into all the rooms; everything was in its normal state, so I calmly went to bed, taking Nip up with me as usual. As I turned in, I looked at my watch—nearly half-past one.

  I slept splendidly, and came down to breakfast with a flourishing appetite. Just as I was finishing my bacon, Anne came in.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said; “how are you?”

  “All right, thanks,” I answered.

  “How is your patient?” she asked.

  I stared at Anne curiously, faithful servant that she was, she had never hitherto displayed any such interest in my patients.

  “Out of danger,” I replied, “and I hope will pull through all right, now.”

  “It must have been a frightful case,” she went on.

  “Um, well, acute pluero-pneumonia is always rather dangerous,” I answered, impatiently.

  “Pluero-pneumonia,” echoed the woman. “I don’t mean that. I mean the fearful accident that was brought in last night. I wish, Mr. Alan, you had rung me up. I might have been of some assistance.”

  “Accident!” I repeated blankly, “what accident?”

  “Last night, sir,” she answered.

  “There was no accident that I know of last night,” I declared emphatically, “and I was in the consulting-room till past one.”

  “No accident,” gasped Anne, and I saw that she was ghastly white, and was trembling so that she had to hold on to the table for support. “Sir, there must have been, for both the surgery passage and consulting-room were swimming with blood this morning.”

  “Nonsense,” I cried, “you have had a nightmare.”

  “I tell you, sir, it is a fact,” she said. “When Jane went to clean the side door step this morning she came back saying that there must have been a bad accident last night, for the place was covered with blood. She had turne
d so faint that I went myself, and from the door right along the passage into the consulting-room, there it was, oh! a horrible, horrible sight.”

  “Is it all cleaned up, yet?” I asked.

  “Not quite,” answered Anne.

  I left my breakfast, and as I strode along I nearly fell over Jane, who on her knees was busily engaged in wiping up blood. Yes, I saw it myself; from the garden door a horrible red rivulet ran, and here and there the wall was splashed as if someone had wantonly dabbled in and thrown up the liquid. Sick and dizzy I went into the consulting-room. There was a scarlet trail right along, and just by the fireplace there was a large hideous pool of blood soaking into the carpet, and leaving ghastly stains around.

  I am not ashamed to confess that my brain reeled; the mysterious horror overcame me, and for a moment I thought that I was going to disgrace myself by fainting, then common sense asserted itself and I recovered.

  “Someone has been playing a scandalous practical joke here,” I said sternly, “and you may be sure that I shall spare no expense to bring the perpetrator to justice.”

  The servants looked but half convinced, and I even heard Anne mutter something about “a haunted house.”

  Although I affected to treat the matter lightly, yet I was sorely perplexed. I was quite convinced that it was a practical joke, but I was puzzled as to how the perpetrator or perpetrators could have got in to the house, then where did they get the blood from, and how silent they must have been? Suddenly I remembered Nip’s terror, and a cold thrill went through me. Altogether I was not surprised when my patients told me how very ill I looked. Mind I had not the slightest belief in any supernatural agency, no thoughts of ghosts oppressed me, but I felt uncomfortable, as I could advance no reasonable theory to account for those ghastly marks.

  When I got home for luncheon everything was as neat and trim as usual, excepting that my servants looked ill, and that a large skin rug had been placed over the stains on the carpet in the consulting-room. The marks from the wall had also been washed away, but I felt strangely upset and irritable, and my annoyance was culminated when I was told that Nip was dead. I had left him in my bedroom, and when the girls had gone in they had found the poor beast dead.

  I was so thoroughly dispirited that when a friend of mine wired to me, and asked me to dine with him that evening, I gladly accepted the invitation as a means of ridding myself from my unpleasant thoughts.

  It was a lovely night, clear, cold, and frosty. The moon was lighting up the star-spangled blue sky, the air was deliciously bracing and exhilarating, and as I walked along all my worries seemed to disappear. I spent a most enjoyable evening, and I wish you to bear in mind that the conversation never once touched upon the supernatural. I am an extremely abstemious man, and I drank only one glass of claret, and two glasses of champagne. You will soon understand why I am giving you these apparently unimportant details.

  About half-past eleven, I said good-bye, and as I slipped into my fur-lined coat, my friend said laughingly, “What a big fellow you are, Forsyth.” I glanced idly into the mirror, and thought how well I looked. The gas shone on my diamond studs, and my curly hair was as dark brown as it could possibly be, without being actually black; the next time I saw my reflection in a glass, it was the colour it is now, grey, bleached with horror!

  I walked home, whistling blithely, and just as I neared my house I took out my bunch of keys preparatory to letting myself in through the surgery door. How bitterly cold it was. I had a feeling of pity for any unfortunate tramp that might be out; the wind had risen, and its icy blast penetrated even through my thick coat. When I got to the garden gate, judge of my astonishment when I saw crouching by the wall the figure of a woman. She rose when she heard my footsteps. I noticed that she wore a long black cloak, and a black hood covered her head.

  She advanced to meet me, and the grace of her movements struck me with admiration.

  “For the love of God,” she said, in a low melodious voice, “will you help me?”

  I put my hand in my pocket mechanically and drew out half-a-crown, which I handed to her.

  She looked at it idly. “I don’t want money,” she said sadly, “it is of no use to me. I want shelter, for I am so cold.”

  “What do you require?” I queried impatiently. “I will give you another half-crown, and for five shillings you can get a bed anywhere.”

  She put out her hands, and laid them on my arm. How small and white they were. What an exquisite shape, the pretty rosy filbert nails, the slender tapering fingers, on which blazed some costly diamond rings. At their touch a thrill went through me. “I am so cold,” she repeated, with infinite pathos. “Take me in with you and give me shelter.”

  “You must be mad to ask me such a thing,” I said angrily; “go to an hotel.”

  “They will be all shut,” she replied, “and I am so cold that I shall die.” As she spoke the moon came out from a bank of cloud and lit up the unknown’s face with a soft golden glory. Good heavens, what a face! Never could I have conceived anything earthly so lovely. Even now, waking or sleeping, I can see it before me. It was a purely oval face, with a delicate creamy complexion, absolutely colourless. The mouth was small and scarlet and the lips were tremulous and pouting like a child’s. I felt a mad desire to kiss them into smiling content; the nose was perfect, but the eyes were the chief beauty. Large, liquid, violet eyes, shaded with long, black lashes—eyes that in their dreamy sensuousness were sufficient to make a man lose his soul, but for one glance of love from them. Rings of soft, yellow, curly hair escaped from the hood, and clustered over the low, white brow. I stood fascinated, and gazed upon this dream of female loveliness.

  “Don’t be vexed with me,” she urged piteously, “but he has turned me out, turned me out to-night in this bitter cold, and I shall die if you will not give me shelter.”

  She came still nearer to me, her cloak touched me, I felt her warm fragrant breath on my cheek, her hands tightened on my arm, and I—well, I am only a man. The blood was coursing through my veins, and I was losing my head under the glamour of those wonderful eyes.

  “Come in,” I said hastily, “I will give you shelter for to-night. It would kill a wee frail thing like you to be exposed to the cold much longer.”

  She laughed gratefully, a low rippling laugh like the tinkle of bells. “You are good,” she murmured.

  She followed me up the path, I opened the door and as she came in I was vaguely struck by an impression that she knew her way about the house.

  I took her into the consulting room, a bright fire was crackling in the grate, and she went to it at once. “I am so cold,” she said again, and she held out her white hands to the blaze.

  I turned up the gas, my brain was on fire; this was an adventure with a vengeance. But what would become of my reputation if it were to be known that a strange and lovely young woman had passed the night under my bachelor roof? As I looked at her, all my selfish doubts vanished. Laugh, sneer if you like, but I, Alan Forsyth, was madly in love, with a woman whose very name I did not know, and whose acquaintance I had made not a quarter of an hour back.

  She had loosened her cloak, and stood in the bravery of her finery. She wore a gown of pale pink silk, made in a style that I had never seen before; the bodice was cut low in front, and showed a bosom perfectly modelled and as spotlessly white as marble; amongst the laces that fell and rose with every breath was a cluster of half-blown roses, and their faint sweet perfume seemed to madden me. They were fastened by a diamond brooch; the beautiful arms were bare to the shoulder, but diamond bracelets were clasped about them. Round the slender throat was a tight band of broad black watered ribbon, in the centre of which flashed a superb brooch of brilliants. This made the milky whiteness of the skin more vivid in contrast to the black. Her golden hair was piled up high on the queenly little head, and the coils were fastened by diamond pins.

  How perfectly lovely she was. I rubbed my eyes to see if it were a dream, and if the vision would fad
e away; but no, she was still there, with the flames flickering on her marvellous beauty. Where had she come from? Who was she? I knew everyone in Slominster, by sight at least, and it was not likely that such a lovely creature could live in the town without being known; besides, her dress and jewels showed that she was wealthy.

  “Are you warmer yet?” I asked smiling.

  “No, I am so cold,” she repeated wearily; “do you think I will ever be warm again.”

  I curbed the inclination to take the slender form in my arms, and warm it with the fervour of my embraces.

  I put some brandy on the table, and mixed a little with water, which I handed to her. She took it with a grateful smile and sipped it, and I was relieved to see a tinge of pink come into the colourless cheeks.

  “You must tell me who you are,” I remarked gently, “so that I can communicate with your friends.”

  “My friends,” she repeated vacantly; “I have no friends, he will not allow me to have any, he is so jealous, and to-night he turned me out, out in the snow and rain, although he knows how I dread the cold.”

  “It was not snowing or raining to-night,” I said, “but who is he that treats you so cruelly?”

  “My husband, of course,” she answered; “but don’t let us talk of him, for I hate him, and oh! I am so afraid of him. Whenever his eyes are upon me I turn cold with dread, and when he attempts to kiss me I all but faint; and then he says that I have a lover, and that he will murder me, and I am so unhappy.”

  How can I convey any idea of the inexpressible mournfulness of her tone, of the piteous look in her eyes. Hazardous as her conduct was, I felt convinced of her goodness and purity, for who could doubt it after once looking into the exquisite, innocent face.

  “Do not think of him,” I said, “but rest here and get warm, and in the morning we will talk matters over, and if you will allow me I will assist you all in my power.”