by Simon Stern
My tale is ended. That night she was removed to a private lunatic asylum, where for three years she was kept at my expense. She died raving mad, and from inquiries I made I know that from the moment when it first appeared to her to the hour of her death the face of the man she had killed was ever with Judith Despard.
THE GHOST’S “DOUBLE” by L. F. Austin
“A second floor in St. James’s Street,” according to Barty Josselin’s biographer, should be a haunt of fashionable dissipation. For some years past I have found it a very decorous abode, “a gentlemanly residence, by Jove!” as Meredith’s General Ople would say, but decidedly prosaic. There used to be a black cat which waited for me on the doorstep whenever I came home in the small hours; but even that emblem of dubious habits has disappeared. My second floor is so austere that a friend who always complained that the atmosphere, the furniture, the prints on the walls, filled him with suicidal depression, sent me last Christmas the bust of a Faun, a wicked old classic with vine-leaves in his hair, and his features contorted by a very disreputable wink. This piece of vertu stands on the sideboard, and keeps up the wink with singular tenacity, though his surroundings must have convinced him long ago that this superannuated gaiety is quite thrown away.
I was sitting by my fire very late one night at the beginning of autumn. A clock, four clocks, struck two in succession, and I was wondering whether it was happy chance or a polite understanding which prevented them from clashing, when suddenly there was a tremendous pealing of bells on the other side of the street. I looked out of the window; not a soul was to be seen; but at that instant there was a burst of laughter, a woman’s laughter, behind me, and turning round, I was amazed to behold in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace a lady in a curiously old-fashioned evening toilette. She was young, extremely good-looking, and wore her black hair in very full braids on either side of her face, reminding me of an old print of Byron’s Gulnare.
A nice visitor at such an hour! I glanced involuntarily at the Faun, whose features seemed to be wrinkled with a fresh and most compromising grin. Following my eyes, the young woman laughed again, and tripping across the room, laid her cheek against his. The picture appealed to my artistic perceptions, but it was not to be tolerated for a moment.
“Really, madam,” I said, “I must protest against this intrusion. A second floor in St. James’s Street, though you may not think it, has a character to lose. You have mistaken the house, madam, and——”
“Hoity toity!” said she, in an oddly artificial voice, which sounded as if it came out of a phonograph; “I have known this room, sir, for a hundred years. But how you have changed it! Books!”—she made a wry face at the learned tomes which littered the table—“You are sad and scholastic, I fear, not one of the pretty fellows of my day. Still, that Faun——”
“Madam,” I said, with dignity, “I must beg you not to jump to hasty conclusions about that—hem!—that object of vertu. I do not understand what you mean by a hundred years, and if you will have the goodness to retire——”
She laughed again. “Man alive, what a dull block you are! Did ye not hear the bells over the way?”
“The bells—yes, but——”
“I rang them! I am a ghost—such a very old ghost——”
She paused; evidently I was expected to pay a compliment.
“Time writes no wrinkles—hem!”
“On my azure brow! Very polite of you! So people still quote Byron! We died in the same year, he and I, and I have often wondered why I never met his ghost. We might have such games with the bells!”
“Surely you would not expect the ghost of Byron to engage in such an undignified romp?”
“Pooh! You don’t know the ghostly world. We have left off all our classic airs, blood-curdling lamentations, and so forth, and taken to practical joking. It is so much more amusing than waking people in the night to tell them about buried treasure and hidden bones; that sort of melodrama went out of fashion years ago. When you have to be a ghost for ever, you cannot endure gloomy monotony. Now, ringing bells—yours, for instance——”
“Good heavens, madam! I hope you will do nothing of the kind! The valet who sleeps in the basement will come up, and as he is a most particular man, the sight of you at this hour——”
It was too late. Every bell in the house rang with a startling peal. There were steps on the stairs, and, rushing out of the room, I met James, the valet, to whom I explained rather incoherently that I had become accidentally entangled with the bell-handle. At that moment his candle went out, and something rustled past me with the unmistakable sound of a giggle.
“Very good, sir,” said the voice of James in the darkness with sarcastic emphasis.
She was gone, taking my reputation with her! . . . What did this mean? When I re-entered my room, there she sat in the same chair, but with a totally altered expression. The air of saucy mischief was succeeded by a grim stare from her black eyes. The face was much paler, and there was a small red mark on her right temple.
“Pardon me,” I stammered, “I fear you are not well. If you will permit me to——” There was a little brandy in a cupboard, but I had a sudden doubt of its efficacy for a fainting spirit!
“What ails you, sir?” The voice was different too—much more phonographic.
“I—I was afraid you were not well. Yon were so cheerful a few moments ago, and now——”
“What do you mean, man? I never saw you before,” she retorted.
“Really, madam, isn’t this—hem—rather capricious? Just now you said you were fond of practical joking, and you rang all the bells. Then you passed me on the stairs and laughed. James heard you, and as he is a most particular man——”
She sprang up with a cry which sent a shiver through me—the first ghostlike sensation I had felt since the beginning of these singular proceedings.
“It is my double,” she exclaimed; “my deceitful, hateful double! Look at me. Am I like a ghost who would play the fool by ringing bells?”
She was certainly not. Her eyes had a cavernous glare, and from the red mark on her temple a small crimson drop began to trickle.
“Seventy years ago this very night, the man I loved came to me and said he had been ruined by play at Crockford’s——”
“Now the Devonshire Club,” I remarked. “No gambling there now, I assure you. I am a member.”
“Don’t interrupt me!” she said fiercely. “He declared he was ruined. It was a lie! He told me he was going home to commit suicide. I asked him to do it here, but he refused.”
“Quite right. What would James have said? I beg your pardon. Seventy years ago it was different, of course.”
“He swore to me he would blow his brains out at three o’clock. I said I would not survive him. As the clock struck three I shot myself. But he, the monster, betrayed me, and continued his despicable life!”
“A very shabby trick!”
“Is not that enough to poison eternity for a ghost? And now I have a double, a wretched shade, who makes me ridiculous, whereas I used to be respected! This upstart race of spirit-doubles has destroyed the old aristocracy of the ghostly universe. We are driven from our haunts by buffoons! I shall never appear again—never!”
I was irresistibly moved to offer consolation, though I had no idea what I was saying.
“My dear madam, pray don’t take it so much to heart. The other lady is certainly flighty. She made most injurious suggestions about that—that object of vertu you see on the sideboard——”
Something pinched my ear violently. At my elbow stood the “double,” radiant, triumphant, laughing immoderately.
“Ladies!” I cried. “For pity’s sake don’t quarrel here! If James should come, what on earth should I say? One is bad enough, but two——”
A clock struck the first note of three. I saw a pistol barrel gleaming against the white temple where the red drop had trickled.
“Not here, I implore you. Think of the scandal——
”
There was a loud explosion, then a shriek of laughter, and I was alone in the room.
Next day I remembered that I had read something about this theory of the spectre’s spectre. Alas! poor old-fashioned ghost, how thy tradition is trampled on and derided by the Comic Spirit!
THE HAUNTED MANOR by E. H. Rebton
A Ghost Story for Christmas
The Manor stood in a fair domain,
Old, in ruins, and grey,
And ivy grew on the broken walls,
And brightened its grand decay;
And the stately trees threw a sombre shade
The silent paths along
Inviting the owl to a nightly prowl,
And the thrush to a morning song.
It had had no tenant for many a year,
And its owners, now, were dead,
The last had died on a foreign shore,
With a curse upon his head—
The curse that follows a wicked man.
Tho’ Peasant, or Prince, is he;
He died like a dog, and as a dog
They flung him into the sea.
So ’twas said, the manor was “haunted” now,
Whatever that may be—
I cannot tell, but I know the place
Was shunned to a great degree,
And sounds were heard which to mortal ears
Brought ever a shuddering sense,
And creatures came which could ne’er be seen,
And none could say from whence.
And bells rang out on the still night air,
With a strange and jarring sound,
And feet went scampering through the house,
From the attic to the ground,
And passers-by described the tread,
As of a mighty host,
And so at last it was resolved,
To call this legion “Ghost.”
Then there arose in every mind,
The thought it must be settled.
It had been tried before and failed,
And folks were somewhat “nettled”
To think that what they could not see,
Should set them at defiance—
And so the village one and all,
Proposed a strong alliance.
All to the Manor boldly did repair,
Of course in the “dead of night”—
For Ghosts, as they say “not liking the day,”
Must be seen in a “different light”—
But when they got there down the dark kitchen stair
Went rushing the common grey rat,
And up a flight higher near a broken bell-wire,
Which she played with, was seated—a bat.
THE NAMELESS VILLAGE by J. E. Thomas
A Mystery of the Mendip Hills
Dead and forsaken, buried ’neath a ban,
Nameless, and lost to memory of man.
I had been walking nearly all day over the Mendip Hills.
Many a village and hamlet had I passed in my wanderings, but none so quaint as the one, half hidden in a rosy haze, which I was approaching.
It was nestled deep down in a hollow, and the setting sun tinged the little thatched roofs of the cottages, and the autumnal tinted foliage with touches of gold and crimson and purple.
A faint scent of sweetbriar seemed to pervade this tiny village. It formed altogether such a pretty old world picture, soft moss grew luxuriantly over the little porches, and the last roses of summer bloomed in their tender beauty from the cottage walls and covered like a fairy curtain the diamond-paned window.
Giant hollyhocks and prickly holly bushes, smothered already in scarlet berries, stood like enchanted sentinels at the rustic wooden gates. What, however, struck me as curious was the deathly silence which reigned over all. Not a soul could I see, not a sound greeted my ears. I felt as if I had walked into some spell-bound haunt, or a village buried in the dusty forgotten past of the middle ages.
Not far from the church stood the old manor house. I walked along the avenue of splendid chestnut trees which led to it, wondering how it was I had come across no mention of this queer out-of-the-way little place in my map. The house, built of grey stone, and mantled in ivy, was evidently of very ancient date. Over the stone portico an inscription was carved, but so discoloured by damp as to be impossible to decipher. The door itself, of massive oak and studded with nails, was black with age. My efforts to open it proving unavailing, I was about to retire, when I saw an old dame hobbling towards me. She was attired in a worn black velvet gown, and a white frilled muslin hood covered her head. I asked permission to look over the house; she was apparently dumb, for she vouchsafed me no answer, but silently produced from the reticule a heavy iron key, with which she began to fumble at the lock; it creaked ominously, opening with a harsh, grating sound to admit me. The old lady did not accompany me but left me to make my investigations alone.
The floors were thick with dust, and the furniture, which mainly consisted of oak, was worm-eaten, whilst some fine specimens of tapestry hanging limply on the walls were fretted by a relentless colony of moths.
In the long oak-panelled dining hall several family portraits were fitted into the wainscotting; one of these struck me forcibly, it was the picture of a thin-faced, dark-eyed man, wearing a ruff; but the expression was so life-like and peculiar that it repelled and fascinated me at the same time. Opposite hung the portrait of a girl, but the gloom surrounding the face was so deep that I could make out very little of the features.
A handsome silver sconce, the candles burnt almost to the sockets, and an iron inkhorn were standing on the table.
I passed through many rooms, but a sense of oppression weighed me down, and an indefinable musty odour clung to everything.
My footsteps resounded mournfully through the deserted corridors, and I glanced back more than once when I fancied I could detect the sound of hushed voices whispering behind me.
At last I entered a queer little chamber, more cheerful than the rest. On the deep window seat lay an old manuscript of music, and a mandolin, the chords of which were broken. I looked out of the lattice and saw what must once have been my lady’s pleasance; now it was over-grown with weeds and brambles. Just in the middle of the lawn stood a curiously-shaped sundial.
The heavy perfume of a magnolia tree in full bloom, which climbed the wall outside, filled the chamber, while a breath of air came sighing in and stirred the tarnished hangings of the four-poster. At that moment I happened to glance once more at the sundial, and caught my breath suddenly. The transparent form of a girl was standing before it, gazing with bent head at the desolation around her. But the vision of illusion quickly faded and I was left contemplating only the dark shadows of the trees cast by the last flickering rays of the sun on the neglected garden.
After some little difficulty I managed to find my way out of the rambling old house, and on looking back I saw the heavy door slowly pushed from inside and close with a clang, while the key grated in the lock and turned with a hollow groan.
All sorts of odd fancies crowded through my brain as I walked in the direction of the Church, which I was determined to see; the lovers, joys, sorrows and tragedies of byegone days arranged themselves in fantastic groups in my imagination as I passed up the weed-grown pathway.
The church door was open, but it was so dark inside that at first I could make nothing out, but as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I noticed that the air of mystery which enveloped both the mansion and village was not wanting here. The pews, black with age, were all very high and narrow. The large one at the chancel end of the church was even higher than the rest, and square in shape; it also boasted pillars richly carved at each corner, and all round hung velvet curtains spangled with silver cobwebs. Over the altar was a kind of alcove, ornamented with a fresco of cherubim adoring the Holy grail.
Suspended from the groined roof were some tattered flags, whilst long-robed and mail-clad effigies seemed from their s
hadowed recesses to fix me solemnly with stony, sightless eyes.
Feeling an unaccountable weariness creeping over me, I seated myself in the great square pew, leaving the door open.
Looking up I noticed that the wax tapers on the altar were burning, throwing a dim light over the scene.
Then—my heart stood still, for, gliding slowly up the aisle, came a strange procession.
First, the figure of a girl, covered with a long white veil, and by her side a tall, fair man, then followed a silent, gorgeous crowd. The bride and bridegroom approached the altar rails and knelt there. Three monks stood awaiting them, and one, a man with eyes like fierce gleaming jewels, stretched forth a trembling bony hand above their heads as if in benediction.
Spell-bound I waited—but the vision faded, passing away noiselessly as it had come, into the gathering night.
As I continued to gaze in the direction of the altar my eyes fell upon a coffin: it was draped with a purple pall, while a young, fair-haired man knelt, keeping lonely watch beside it. Then a monk appeared. I saw his face plainly. It was that of the man whose portrait I had seen in the old dining-hall. He stole stealthily up to the kneeling figure. My sight was next dazzled by an upward gleam of steel—something sinking in a dark, huddled heap on the floor—something darker still trickling down the steps—and—nothing more. It must have been a dream conjured up out of the hidden past. That night, when, rather late, I reached the Cheddar, I tried in vain to gain some information regarding the curious little hamlet through which I had passed. Neither my own touring map nor any of those scattered about on the parlour table could afford me the desired information. “Maybe old Sarah can tell you something,” suggested mine host.
So next morning, being directed as to her whereabouts, to old Sarah I accordingly went.
She was sitting at the door of her tiny hut, superintending a buxom young lass in her efforts at gardening. She was chatting volubly, and held a long rake in her horny hand, with which she was apparently in the habit of enforcing her remarks at intervals on the rosy-cheeked maiden, thus obviating the trouble of following her about her small domain.