The Mystery Surrounding Hamplock House

by John Tan

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  ‘We had Eloisa the Negress Cook reserving for us three sizzling kidneys, with the fat still wrapped around the roasted and oleaginous loins, topped with fine roasted nuts. Delicious! Scrumptious!’

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  ‘I read a book by Thomas Hardy, and I thought one of his romantic characters came equipped with a mustachioed smile, the which highlighted his whiteness of teeth, by sheer contrast; as if they glowed in the gloaming—for here he was set up to meet the heroine, and he was very nicely dressed, with a long, white floating scarf and pink kids’ gloves. Although the other suitor was right as rain, it little availed him, and thus he twiddled his thumbs to no evident purpose; and serves him right, too!’

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  ‘Doctor Emil Franz. He seems to have been combed by an eight-handed octopus, so at cross-purposes is he today; and his hair so unruly—they swept back and forth, and front and backwards again! I do not know what happened to him. Although his skin is smooth as an apple, he has a gold tooth which I thought was singular—being the only denture he had in his otherwise full complement of teeth! His brown moustache is long, and spindly; which seems to have undergone the process of being twirled constantly. At other times he is not so exceptional—and that is--when he is plastered with a thickness of pomade—which gives him a curious look.

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  ‘I have finished reading Charles Dickens’s Old Curiosity Shop, and wept bitter tears when Little Nell died. A great and a brave job, Charles Dickens! Bravo! Well done!’

  Such in the main were the writings that I was able to excavate from the hole which had got progressively larger, and forthwith I had hastened to set them down, being the proper thing, I had thought, to do.

  4

  I was remembering how on April the Fourth, the ghost had stood there on the polished wooden flooring, or, seeming to hang in the waning light and the somber air of an evening:--discreetly, silently, the silence of the observer being observed. So much so, that the meaning of its stealing upon me unawares was a cause of speculation I had tried to understand and fathom; though, I thought not a mere whim on its part—since Hamplock House had established a history—whereby, some would suggest—the connectivity between an older age and this present one had been in the realm of mental declension, existing in a crazed and diseased atmosphere of which some of the minds of these people had long been dead; though, of course, some, like me, still lived there. What struck me with the sharpest intensity was that it was a cowering ghost, as if in life, it had shrunk from some impending blow that, no doubt, spelt its doom, for, clearly, tragedy marked its smallish face, the face of this soft, silvery illumination, which looked as if it had never raced round its father, nor trotted beside its mother’s heels, nor frolicked among its little friends in the school-yard. That was the moment—for me, that marred and intensified the dream-like quality of the idyll of a merry springtime, and the newly discovered objects from inside my wall did seem to foretell prosperity in my coming days; except, the appearance of the boy-ghost close upon its very heels bode some kind of ill, perhaps!

  Like I said, I thought it was rather a tame ghost. I suspect it knew I knew it meant me no harm; yet, it carried a sorrow beyond its years as palpably as the nose upon my face. Be that as it may, I didn’t know who was the comptroller of my fate in this place, and who had made me the custodian of the property of Augustine Hamplock’s daughter which had been secreted inside my wall, she, who I realized now, must have died in the same room that I occupy now. What were ghosts not sleeping in the Garden of Death doing, thought I! Are they all so gung-ho to be about each other’s business, are they in tandem to one another in bestriding time and space? What are the indulgences and tender mercies that a benign ghost will visit us? With what terror do malignant ones torment us; as they foment disaster; casting aspersions on the good ones that fought against them, so as to continue a trend of upsets that is more than mere indigestion.

  5

  --‘C.S.H.’ (the oil cloth was signed)

  One afternoon towards the middle of the month of May, desiring once more to scrutinize the brush-strokes in the parchment, I was led to deduce from further investigations that the red the owner had used was ‘cadmium red’— though it be a faded tint now—denoting the passion of the painter; and, together with the whites that she used elsewhere on the slightly brownish cloth, she was a person that loved clear, bright colors. From the vigorous way she formed her slanting, curvy letters, I also concluded she was a vigorous, strong-willed person; set in her ways from a young age; but given to excesses and tending towards eccentricity of manner. What kind of person besides that was Clarice S. Hamplock? No doubt they would say, those who housed her in this asylum of sorts, she had inherent weaknesses of character, or her mind was ill-formed; or grotesque fantasies haunted her or she was hearing voices in her head, but something had precipitated her fall from womanly steadfastness and normalcy, this well-bred person, who had managed to keep her sense of humor intact throughout her stay and until her untimely death in Hamplock House. To be so cloistered must have distressed her greatly, this distress felt, because of the horribleness of mental illness; it must have been very acute.

  When the time came for her father Augustine Hamplock to visit her, what made her give in to her bad feelings and presumably teed off at him; or otherwise, withdrew herself with nail-biting anxiety until his visit should have ended? Did she ever attempted to reconcile with him, and what caused her deadly quarrel that not even kindness and paternal solicitude nor the spirituality much needed for even partial recovery—on her very own part-- was able to tide over? No doubt, she must have felt he had wronged her in some grievous ways—and, was that the reason for her succumbing to madness? She said in here, at Hamplock House, she was being haunted to death! But haunted by who? By the little boy, and who was the little boy in real life? Who was the little boy, and was his name Davy? No doubt, she was very accomplished and clever and her wounded reason would have allowed her to see her way through many a difficult and tenuous thing; but somehow, it was probable that she never overcame every one of her difficulties with the same tenacity and courage! It might be better, she might have so reasoned, in the last analysis, to remain insane and stayed for the rest of her life in this place for her own beliefs! Yet, what was the purpose of her existence? No doubt, no red herring was going to derail her purpose for too long, I thought! As it appears, her life was quite congenial, despite being cursed with a clouded mind—though, intellectually, she was a functioning lunatic. How much of the true light had she seen, or knew she had seen, after her high-bred and delicate fashion, was what I would like to know. But, notwithstanding how much or little, she was thoroughly a sensitive-souled person; that much was borne out from the little evidences that were found; and therefore, with a shred of pertinency.

  More doubtful was whether she saw dark spots everywhere she went, or that she espied a chink in every fellow’s armor, or—like Mrs. Cavendish, she complained of a grotesqueness in patterns harmless and non-threatening, in themselves; that left a mark upon her frangible mind. Was her person full of overbearing fastidiousness? But, one way or another, I tried to construe a picture out of the best of a balance of probabilities; but my level of cogitation, as one mental patient, sitting in judgment over another, did not yield me very superior insight nor was it overtly helpful.

  Be that as it may, because the late Mrs. Elkland had resided in the same room as her, no doubt there had been, at least, a subtle influence upon the latter’s mind and her later recovery, which was the result of Clarice’s strong personality. Just as Clarice had brought this to bear upon Mrs. Elkland’s broken personality, so too had Mrs. Elkland sought to bear it upon mine; and one of her first rules I soon learned, was not to fight her—or them both, but let them wrought their influence upon me; in one’s unfolding circumstance. In this, it was not hard to do, to wear inwardly a forthcoming and expectant state of soul. Clearly, as my construing went, it seemed that Clarice S. Hamplock was living in the l
ate Mrs. Elkland, nee Salvatore somehow, when she was alive: so then, was she, Clarice Hamplock, seeking to live in me also--after Mrs. Alice Elkland’s recent death? Was some kind of transmigration of souls being perpetrated in this venerable and ancient house, so that the spirit of the woman was perpetuated in the new inmates who came to stay in Hamplock House? That was why, maybe, Mrs. Elkland returned here when she knew she was soon to die, to give up the ghost so that she could pass her ghost to me! There would be a residue of her original personality left in herself, of course, but, motivated by the ghost inside her, was her anxiety in giving the next occupant of her bed all her effects subtle proof that in reality this had been the case; so that I can get to be orientated as well? So far it was mere theory—but a gripping one, because it made sound sense. But it was a theory I cared to share with neither Doctor Cranston nor Doctor Liam Alvarez!

  6

  The corridor of the second floor was dark, but not completely dark that May evening. For few hours it had been raining cats and dogs and I wondered if the torrents would intermit. Outside the window, lightning lit up the purple sky, and I thought we could hear the mad cacophony of the swirling blasts and screaming gusts of that heavy, late evening downpour; as recalling each one to the consciousness of those other storms that might be still rage unabated interiorly of each of us, in its varied aspects or ways—or in its varying degrees. Our window panes were sheeted entirely by rainwater, and I felt like the days of old Noah during the great deluge and fancied that this place was the only dry bit of timber on the entire storm-tossed planet. Since the afternoon began, Mrs. Cavendish seemed to be strangely affected by something. She said the cold had got to her again--numbed her limbs and joints and she was aiming for some Tee-vee, which, she said, would do her a world of good. She said she would bring her trusty flask for hot drinks, if I didn’t mind my accompanying her, which I assented at once with good grace because company seemed an excellent idea, too, on a night like this. That put her in little better mood, but, not heeding me following her behind, she huddled near the wall of the landing, keeping herself well apart from each other. For a moment, though her every feature was well known to me, she looked different somehow, as the lightning licked the edges of her hair; and she seemed more out of sorts than before. I smiled frigidly. She ignored my presence and made no remark until we sat on vinyl upholstered couches, and then she spoke up wearily, ‘Ah, National Geographic.’

  We sat down and watched a show about dinosaurs of the prehistoric age-- together with the pullover-wearing crowd until a rerun called Alvarez Kelly came and went and James A. Michener’s Centennial began, which was eleven-thirty--so the place, the Tee-vee lounge was now deserted except for ourselves. The prevailing weather being still bad, we heard the thunder rumbled raucously above our heads. Mrs. Cavendish—a person of slender form and bearing—suddenly stiffened her back, and with a transitory loud uptake of breath, just as suddenly, she announced as if talking to herself in her stupor, ‘The Tee-vee People are coming!’ She said it out of the blue. I was half-engaged while watching the show, in reading a page of Mrs. Elkland’s diary, which was filled with a few lines lifted from one of the books I found in the library. The excerpt was from H.G. Wells’s When the Sleeper Wakes which was sort of melancholy; because of the rain—falling outside still. The lines had ran: ‘I don’t know if you feel the inconveniences of the body, its exasperating demand of time from the mind—time—life! Live! We live only in patches. We have to eat, and then comes the dull digestive complacencies—or irritations. We have to take the air or else our thoughts grow sluggish, stupid, run into gulfs and blind alleys. A thousand distraction arise from within and without, and then comes darkness and sleep. Men seem to live for sleep…’

  ‘And, women, too!’ thought I, involuntarily: ‘Are you awake—Mrs. Cavendish?’

  Just then I recollected the origin of the aphorism that Mrs. Cavendish had uttered in her dream-like, suspended state: it was Heather O’ Rouke’s character in Steven Spielberg’s Poltergeist who had said that famous line;--‘What did you say, Mrs. Cavendish?’ I said, still half-cocking my ears, and intent upon Mrs. Elkland’s diary.

  ‘Oh,--nothing!’ and then, she hesitated a few seconds before slowly repeating, ‘The Tee-vee People are coming.’

  I stopped abruptly. Mrs. Elkland’s diary dropped from my hand.

  ‘Are you currently writing a lot of things, dear?—I have seen you lately busy with your diaries and whatnot papers—and you fill pages after pages—what are you writing about?’ she said, with a certain shift of tone; apologetic—but also, suspicious-like.

  I tried to sound interested. ‘Stuff,’ said I.

  She gazed at me with colorless eyes, and laid a languid hand lightly on my shoulder. I said, try to sound voluble: ‘I am studying about writing, and for this I must practice a lot. I read a lot too, everything, I can get my hands on in this place. You know, it’s not simply the ability to put two words together but being able to string together, twenty—forty—eighty sentences just like that; as it were, off the bat. That is important. That is the icing on the cake that makes the whole writing endeavor worthwhile—indeed! because—to master literature, you must prove it by being able to write it. Yourself. There is no other measurement or test for one’s by no means mean accomplishment.’

  She was so silent; therefore, in the tone of commonplace gossip, I added, ‘Literature, itself—ah! The difference between producing literature and in producing mere pastiche stands not a great deal; rather, it’s a hair’s-breadth! Primarily, a matter of intense concentration of one’s experiences and the ability to contemplate one’s work with a special kind of unhurried, calm awareness.’

  ‘Oh,’ she made an answer between a sob and a cackle.

  Mrs. Cavendish was in that state of heightened, unpleasant arousal, because I saw her pale, waxen face—with that unearthly pallor, like a manikin’s--or was a white, stiff mask thrown over her own? It affected me profoundly, and I was shifting for something to say, so that my start might not take a worser turn, when, suddenly, up she got, abruptly without looking at me, and walked to the furthest, darkest corner of the room—doing a right-about. It shocked me because I saw in the interim, a wretched transformation had taken place, for when the light again fell on her face, she seemed years younger, as she straightened her back and carriage, then, tilted her head to one side, and, letting her round, animated eyes circumambulate the room. It was a strange thing to have witnessed this alone, where silence reigned, except for the flickering Tee-vee’s rambling commentary, and the booming of the storm faraway. Her eyelids drooped, and with a terrible feeling—like an ordeal—I was thus being subjected to scrutiny; because, nothing can account for it but an intrusion had occurred: something had taken over the body of my friend, as well as her mind.

  The younger woman’s voice was decidedly decibels higher: at last she made known her wish to communicate: ‘I am so terribly cold—alone!’ she cried.

  ‘Who are you?’ I peered curiously at serpent-like Mrs. Cavendish, feeling an impulsion to ask, and the foreign personality in a familiar body said, ‘I am Lara Axel Wade, and I was born on the banks of the Upper Mississippi River.’ When she said this, the body gave a jolt, and its energy grew more pronounced. Mrs. Cavendish had been making a barrage of wrong choices all her life, and it seemed having withdrawn inside her shell, she was making another mistake. Suddenly, the stranger, the intrusion, raised her up, as with a novel surge that coursed through her limbs, sinews, her organs, glands and brain—which inflowing blood enabled her thus to propound her strange ideas.

  I was surmising that she was having a kind of short-lived nervous attack of sorts, and afterwards it would leave her considerably weaker. But, a look of alertness grew in her features; and keen fibrillations occurred with frequency around the softer parts between her nose and lips, and her purple cardigan seemed to be charged with the thrill of some electric current. My blood then was considerably chilled when she went on, slowly, in that same i
ronic vein of hers, ‘I know you, Miss VICTORIA REESE WADE—for, you see, you are also a Wade.’

  ‘Never have I heard of you!’ I tried expostulating—‘why do you want to speak with me!’

  ‘That’s a pity—more’s the pity! – But of me, oh, you will soon hear well enough.’

  She looked angry; but I had no inkling what she was on about. Mrs. Cavendish was breathing through her mouth—in what seemed like a vaporous atmosphere—seeming to be hyperventilating, but the entity went on still: ‘Lock this up and seal it imprimis in your breast. For, lookee—know you that a foul deed of murder was done in this very grange — Defoe Grange, come Independence Day, a hundred years ago, and my son, Davy— and I, died because of the indomitable will of Augustine Hamplock. This grange was a valuable piece of real-estate property then: I remember well. A person is born to die: and die I did.’

  ‘What? Done to death—and, by Augustine Hamplock? But this is not the grange but Hamplock House.’

  ‘That must be what it is now; yes—a heinous crime on the Fourth of July, this hundred years agone; perpetrated by the order of that man who called himself my HUSBAND--.’

  ‘But, I hear all the accounts—I mean, I was told that Millionaire Hamplock was a good man. A leader of society.’

  ‘Not so!—ah—not so! I was his first wife whom he married in 1859 before he married Greta Fischer, the heir to a huge fortune, and so, to facilitate what he wanted, he did away with his Southern Lassie and child, I tell you! –in this very house! He married me in Oklahoma City, oh, with pomp and circumstance! I was his wife I tell you! And, Davy was his child! Poor Davy! Some portions of the grange still remained, but new and extended parts with different architecture was built over them; but he did murder us all right in this place by starving us to the VERY death,’ she added, and her voice trailed off to whispery embers, which mingled with the wind moaning.