by Simon Stern
“Went to Ashchurch ghost-hunting, to prove to poor Conner what fudge it all is.”
The next entry was a fortnight later:—
“Not so sure about fudge. I certainly saw something; but it was probably a wreath of mist.”
And three days further on:—
“George died the very night, and the very hour, in which I saw that something.”
George was a cousin.
It appeared, from Mr. Conner’s letter, that the rhymes on the bit of paper were a copy from an old parchment found in a chest in Ashchurch tower. Cortram carefully preserved both the letter and the copy of verses. His uncle had left him all his property, and he therefore wound up his own business, and settled down, as best he could, to the life of a country gentleman.
But he felt that the associations of Ashchurch had taken so powerful a hold of him that he could not shake it off. He had a feeling that, in some inexplicable way, against which his will seemed powerless to contend, he was being drawn to visit the place again. He long battled with the feeling as being morbid and childish. But finding that he was growing hippish and sleepless, he determined to try whether the actual sight of the place would not work a cure.
So about a twelvemonth after his first visit to it, he found himself once more in the Ashchurch lane, on an evening late in June.
He had been some days in the parish and had employed the interval in getting as much information as he could out of the oldest inhabitants; but this amounted to little beyond what he had already learned from Mr. Conner’s letter to his uncle.
Of late years even the lane leading to the church had been religiously shunned by the parishioners; and a ghost, it is plain, cannot be seen without somebody to see it.
One additional piece of evidence, however, he had got at quite accidentally.
It happened that one day he had called upon the village doctor, whose acquaintance, in his professional capacity, he had made during his last stay in Ashchurch. The doctor was a squarely-built, weather-beaten man, as prosaic and matter-of-fact as a man could be. The conversation turned upon Mr. Conner.
“I knew him well,” observed Dr. Cawson, “and attended him for some years before his death. He died at five minutes past four, on December 10th, twelve and a half years ago.”
“Do you always remember so accurately the time of your patients’ departure, Dr. Cawson?”
“Why—no! But there were peculiar circumstances——”
“Do tell me what they were.”
“If you will promise not to laugh at me. It fell out, that afternoon, that I had been paying some professional visits, and was returning home by Ashchurch Lane on foot. I remembered that, in a corner of the churchyard, there grew a herb which I had often found useful, so I jumped over the gate to gather some. I was busy doing so, when I remembered I had another engagement later on and must make haste. Glancing at my watch I found it was five minutes past four. Just then, in the dim light, I saw the white train of a woman’s dress disappearing round the corner of the church. It was so real, to my mind, that I felt sure I should have seen the whole figure if I had raised my head earlier. I had heard of the same sort of thing having been noticed before, and am not ashamed to say that I got back into the lane and home as fast as ever I could. When I reached my own door, I found that a messenger had been sent by Mrs. Conner, in my absence, to say I was urgently wanted, as Mr. Conner had been suddenly taken worse. I went immediately, but was too late. He had died at five minutes past four.”
“And have you any theory about it, doctor—any explanation?” The doctor shrugged his shoulders, and the conversation changed.
Thinking of this, among other things, Cortram slowly proceeded towards the church. He felt a strong presentiment of some coming event approaching him with the slow steps of fate.
The gate had grown so rusty that it was some time before he could force it open. A hasty glance round the churchyard told him that neglect and decay were rapidly doing their work. The place was a greater picture of desolation than ever. He stationed himself where he could best watch the north-west corner of the building, leaning his arms on a headstone, and concentrating his whole attention on the spot where the apparition had before shown itself.
For a long time he so remained till his eyes began to ache with the fixity of their gaze.
At length there appeared on the surface of the ground, not more than two yards from the corner of the tower, a sort of wreath of vapour, as it seemed, gradually gathering consistency and moving very slowly along the ground towards the tower till at length it took the semblance of trailing garments.
It was in the act of disappearing as it had done before, when with a peculiar wavy motion of the drapery it suddenly seemed to halt, leaving still a portion distinctly visible, as though the mysterious wearer of the dress were standing just behind the ivy-covered corner.
Cortram felt his hair stand on end, and a cold dew seemed to break out on his forehead. Nevertheless he felt impelled to advance, as though some hidden agency within him, more powerful than his own will, were using his limbs for its own purpose.
And still, as he got more abreast of the tower, as well as nearer to it, more and more of the ghostly drapery became disclosed, till at length the tall figure of a woman, with a hood drawn over her face, stood close beside him.
Cortram, as though in a dream, heard a voice he did not recognise as his own, yet a voice using his tongue and his lips, say, in a hoarse whisper:
“In Heaven’s name, what troubles you?”
Slowly the hood fell from the figure’s face, a face unutterably sad and inexpressibly sweet, and its shadowy hand pointed to the wall of the tower. Then the lines of the shape grew indistinct and it melted away. Cortram staggered forward and marked the spot towards which the hand had pointed by tearing down a twig of ivy.
He then, with a shiver, hurried homewards, but a deadly faintness came over him, and ere he had gone many yards, he fell down in a swoon. When he came to himself, the moon was high in heaven, and it was close upon midnight.
As he crept home to his lodgings, stiff and cold, he determined to come next day alone and thoroughly examine the spot he had marked—having the profoundest conviction that he was on the verge of some discovery. Accordingly, after a good night’s rest, feeling no ill effects from his adventure of the previous evening, he went once more to the little churchyard.
He found the branch of ivy hanging down with drooping leaves, and after some groping, he discovered a chink in the wall, into which he could thrust his hand, and out of which he drew a small wooden box, with clamps of iron at the corners, and tightly shut. With the help of a chisel which he had brought with him he burst it open.
Within there lay a paper folded and sealed. He opened and read it. In modern English it ran as follows:
“I, George Cord, killed my wife, Grace Mabel Cord, taking her unawares with a knife in the back, on the 3rd of August, 1742, when she was going round the corner of Ashchurch Tower, to visit our baby’s grave, which was my pretext for getting her into a lonesome place, being firmly set to take her life. I buried her in a hole dug under the hornbeam on the north side. God help me! I have spilt the blood of the purest and sweetest wife ever man had, on foul and most unworthy suspicion, which drove me mad. I have this day found proof of her utter innocence. I leave this confession where the next comer will not fail to find it. In five minutes I shall swing dead from a limb of the hornbeam. And may God have mercy on my soul.”
Cortram folded the paper carefully up, and having put it in his pocket, after replacing the box in the chink of the wall, went straight to the parish doctor’s house. He caught him as he was starting off on his rounds.
“One word, doctor. Have you ever heard of one, George Cord, who committed suicide in Ashchurch some hundred years ago?”
“Yes, they say a rich young squire of that name hanged himself on a tree in the churchyard.”
“Was any reason alleged?”
“The tale goes t
hat his heart was broken by an unfaithful wife, who left him, and was never seen or heard of more.”
“It was a lie, and I can prove it.”
The doctor stared.
“Come to my room, after you have been your rounds, and I will tell you all about it.”
The doctor and Cortram took such steps as were possible to clear the memory of George Cord’s wife of the cloud which had so long rested upon it.
Her husband must have meant to place the little box in as conspicuous a position as possible, but it had dropped out of the trembling fingers, further into the chink than he had intended, and the ivy had grown over it. The poor bones under the hornbeam were given Christian burial in the husband’s grave, and the dust of the murderer and the murdered commingle in peaceful rest.
It was the last funeral in the old churchyard. Nevermore were the ghostly trailing garments seen sweeping round the corner of Ashchurch Tower.
THE HAUNTED TREE by Anonymous
About fifty years since, upon one of the plains which overspread large portions of the south-western part of Maine, certain mysterious things obtruded themselves upon the notice of the community. They startled the thoughtless, puzzled the philosophic, set the superstitious all agog, and made the timid tremble. Unaccountable sounds were heard there; unnatural signs were seen; and often without any visible cause, dogs, cattle, and horses were terribly affrighted.
A pine tree, which stood by the roadside, and which overshadowed the way with its spreading branches, marked that spot which was noted for its wonders. It was tall, straight, and well proportioned—as fair to look upon as its neighbours—and still under its deep shadows all these unaccountable phantoms appeared. The surrounding forest was thickly studded with the same stately growth. In the light of day it was harmless. When the sun pressed its bright rays through that dark forest, when all natural objects were unmistakably distinct and visible, no fearful sight nor sound alarmed the passing man or beast.
But when the eve of day was closed, when deep night—doubly thick and heavy under those green, overshadowing tree-tops—wrapped all things in sable curtains, then these disturbing forces infested the place, and let loose these marvels.
It must be affirmed, however, that this tree did not stand in the most frightful spot traced by that lonesome highway. It was not in the middle of that gloomy forest. It stood nearer the side which bordered on the thickest settlement. Not far above it lay a dark, deep, chilly hollow—often entered with a shudder—which all would declare was the fit home of ghosts and hobgoblins, and where practical robbers would naturally select their ambush. Still, it soon became notorious that this apparently innocent and promising tree was a haunted tree—marked as such by all the surrounding inhabitants—heralded as such through all that region.
It must be added that this spot, which rose into such puzzling notoriety, was about two miles from a dull, unpretentious hamlet, where stores were kept, in which some useful merchandise could be found; but the great article of trade at that time, as it was everywhere, was ardent spirits. Many then regarded strong drink as the elixir of life; while it was surely gliding them into graver difficulties than frights and heart-beatings at the haunted tree. But business at the shops, at the post-office, and most of all at the stores licensed to keep and sell the fashionable, much-loved beverage, would draw the rustics thither after the toils of the day were ended, many of whom had to pass this haunted tree.
As a child could pass it harmless when the light of day guarded the place, they would start in season to pass it before the dusky and fearful hour of night licensed the appearance of these terrors. But if they went on foot, they would always have their dogs accompany them, and then not return alone if they could find company. But after taking a social glass, doing their business, listening to the gossip of the day, hearing the last-reported “scare” at the Tree, they would linger to discuss these mysterious appearances, pro and con, and avow their belief or disbelief in them.
Some who were constant attendants upon the preaching of the uneducated, unpolished, but deeply pious minister of the place, would take a still more serious view of these things. They would say:—“These mysterious sights and sounds mean something! They augur of crime—secret, dark, and heaven-daring. God is making inquisition for blood. Murder will out; and till the awful secret is divulged that spot will be haunted.”
This would disturb the serenity of the man behind the counter. He prided himself as above belief in ghosts, witches, and phantoms; as too intelligent to swallow down such admissions of spiritual manifestations, or of supernatural appearances, and he would say, “Nonsense, nonsense! It is all imagination—all whims, all superstition!”
But at length his own turn came to try these troubles, and to see if it was all bosh and gammon. Returning home one evening upon that road, as he approached the haunted tree his horse stopped short, and stubbornly refused to pass it. It would no more go forward than the beast upon which Balaam rode, when the angel of the Lord, with a drawn sword in his hand, confronted him. This perplexed and disconcerted our merchant; but it was no place to be angry. Though he neither saw nor heard anything unusual himself, his noble horse was trembling with fear and unwilling to advance, as if the road was bristling with armed hobgoblins. He whipped and goaded him on till, with a desperate plunge, he dashed out into the thick, scraggy bushes, rushed by the obnoxious tree, and ran, at the top of his speed, until he brought up, panting and trembling, at his own stable door.
Another incident, which is hard to put aside as a mere phantasm. An elderly man, of a bold, defiant spirit, was passing that way in a partially intoxicated state. A son of six or eight years, and his faithful dog, were with him. As they drew near the tree, a light was seen, as if some invisible hand was holding a lantern. The old man cheered his dog to an attack. Bristling and barking, he bravely struck for the light, when it moved out into the forest. Our tippling friend, more daring than usual just then, attempted to follow it. Up to that point the courage of the boy held out (as he informed the writer), as he saw nothing but a light, and that retreating before the dog. But when the father turned into the bushes, he was thoroughly affrighted, and wished to hasten home if naught forbade it. But the light soon faded, the dog became composed, the father returned to the road, and another wonder was reported.
Sometimes these same persons would pass unmolested, silence reigning through the whole forest, and no unearthly sight disturb them. Some passed frequently in night’s deepest darkness, and never saw or heard anything strange or supernatural. Such was the case with a young physician, whose practice often led him by that place. He was a man of integrity, every way reliable, generous, and kind in spirit. Keeping a clear conscience toward all men, he was fearless of both the dead and living; and often, in the still hours of night, rode by the tree, calling upon any one who had anything to make known, to come and tell it. But he had no vision of these things. Those who were molested by these unaccountable manifestations were usually struck dumb, passed it as best they could, and gave no challenge.
On a snowy winter day, two men, of good habits, sound judgment, and unquestionable veracity, were passing by that place with waggons heavily laden. The falling snow had become quite deep. They plodded slowly through it, beguiling their dreary way with occasional conversation. As one of them was observing that nobody ventured out, the storm was so severe, they both looked forward, and saw an old and peculiarly dressed man, footing it through the deep snow towards them. Both noticed him, saw that he was a stranger to them, but in all his appearances a veritable man.
The driver of the foremost waggon went forward to get his horses a little out of the road, and give the venerable stranger an easier passage by; and, behold, no one was to be seen! Looking around in every direction, and seeing no one, he asked his companion if he saw a man just before, approaching them? He replied that he did. What had become of him? He could not tell. They stopped their waggon, and made search; but could not discover any track in the snow, neither in th
e road where they thought they saw him, nor in any direction by which he might turn aside. Yet they both ever affirmed that they could not have been mistaken, and that the form, and dress, and motions of a veritable man surely appeared to them.
Thus several years passed on; the list of unnatural manifestations lengthened; the wonders of the haunted tree grew more and more wonderful, till they reached their climax in a face-to-face interview. The mystery was then solved; the curtain dropped; and no more troubles have been experienced.
Upon one of those fertile ridges which rise from the plain, there lived a young man, truthful in speech, industrious in his habits, of strong nerve, and not especially superstitious. Upon a bright moonlight night, in the month of September, he was returning from the store at an early hour, alone, but in a state of calm sobriety. Reaching the haunted tree, the horse upon which he rode came to a dead stand, and would not be urged further. Nothing unusual was there visible to the rider. He coolly dismounted, stepped before the horse, and led him, without any unwillingness, to follow his rider by that fearful place. Having passed the gulf safe and fearless, too, without premeditation—scarcely conscious of what he was doing, he spoke out in a firm voice, “If any one is here who wants anything of me, I would like to see him.”
Immediately, a man, venerable in appearance, dressed in a gone-by style, with gray locks hanging below a broad-brimmed hat, stood directly before him. Surprised, dismayed, and nearly confounded, he felt that he was sent for, and the worst might as well come; so, in trembling tones, he asked, “What do you want of me?”
The spectre, in tones our dismayed friend could never forget, proceeded thus:—
“My name is Hiram White. Twenty-five years ago I was robbed of thirty silver dollars, and then murdered, under this tree. The names of two of the guilty perpetrators of that deed of blood will I give, as they are now living. They were Caleb Walsh and Franklin Orme: but some parts of that awful scene I cannot relate to you. Read the 9th Psalm, and you will apprehend them. I have long haunted this blood-stained spot, to make some one inquire for the terrible secret. You are the first person that has challenged me, and now I have divulged it, these things will no more appear. Follow me, and I will show you where they buried my body.”