The Mystery Surrounding Hamplock House

by John Tan

  ‘Yes—daughter. Er—strains of apprehension is also bound into the anger and the sense of threat—I can see now--’ his voice trailing off into a whisper.

  ‘Quit the drink--’

  ‘Yes, -- and, you drive a hard bargain, daughter.’

  ‘We had been at odds for so long—for as long as I can remember. I guess it’s the right time to address those bad feelings between us. But, do not be angry at God, an improvident Providence, if you may, nor—at yourself, for that matter. How is my mood now, father, eh? I try not to be angry at you, and I think I have begun a campaign, successful thus far, to rid me of my anger. Sometimes something like a feeling of mystification steals over my mind at the slowness of my progress, but like other things—it passes. With a view of searching for even greater clarity, I sometimes pray.’

  ‘What the hell good does that do--?’

  ‘It un-illusion my disillusion, my wanting things in my life to be ideal for me; heaven and hell is not the result of a single mistake, no matter how monumental, I take it—no matter how serious the mistake happened to be—and to think it is, is to succumb to gross error. Sins--to destroy a person have to be habitual, a deliberate and conscious saying “no” to God with a full participation of the will—a conscious turning away from the light to the very death,--a determination to give oneself over to the jaws of perdition and be swallowed up by it—no! it’s not decided by a single issue, but every issue that concerns a person’s life. Once a person has cross the line and is no more salty as the salt of the earth are, there is nothing that can make him salty again; but who knows where that line is situated? A person ought to have psychological integrity, of course, and honestly assess himself or herself, sometime, I think--’

  ‘Well, daughter, some people choose evil because of lack of choice, and it seems to them the least painful thing to do.’

  ‘That is true. When one has a broad spectrum of choices, good choices, won’t everybody choose good? But this is an imperfect world, and our advantage balances out our disadvantages in the end,’ I said. ‘There are some givens in life, and there are always some things you sometimes permit yourself to do; but on the other hand, there are some things you never permit yourself to do. I mean, it goes against your character or its grain, and you are unable to contemplate yourself ever doing these things.’

  ‘I have often reflected, myself, on this--’ my father said, plaintively.

  ‘Yes—dad—as part of a person’s personal resolution; because I think one has been brought up thinking life is not lived successfully if it’s not up to one’s standard. That is good, I think, dad.’

  ‘In—in—being overbearing towards your mother and you girls, I had expected you people to change so that to deny your own reality, in order to accommodate my point of view, my pronouncements and my judgments. I guess I was wrong, daughter.’

  ‘Oh—you are not—not a bad human being my father! You have been much maligned by ill fortunes and we hadn’t been very forthcoming to warm up towards you. We kept our distance and never learnt to overcome that reluctance that was in us ever since we were very young children. I guess as a daughter I was choosy, and found you very hard to love.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me this, Victoria! Often times, I thought my words connect with you just a little more than the winds!—yet, you were very obedient as a child--’

  ‘I was sinisterly aroused the night mom had her stroke. I guess I shouldn’t have gone out that night. It was truly selfish of me. I have often berated myself, and have felt a desolation that is hard to focus my mind on. My heart then becomes so squelchy--and then I think of Clara Amelia—and I feel utterly lost! It usually takes a few cups of coffee before I began to revive and my usual sense of self comes back to me. When I thought of Clara Amelia—I beg your pardon, dad—I usually say to myself, “Calm the terrors of my heart, the tenor of my mood, the darkness in my emotional tone, the nervousness in my blood and in my mind.”’

  ‘Well,’ said my father, ‘as I understand how things were; your idealism about perfect parents aside, you have not fed upon your mother’s anxiety about Clara Amelia and yourself concerning the boy. Thinking about it, I must have been a terrible father and knowing there is no excuse, I don’t blame you for the way your sister died. As a father I feel unfulfilled in my family life, and as I had had more hard luck later on, I began to turn inwards; and by sheer force of habit—almost, I begin searching for things I can be angry about. It was as if the framework of my life is the need for an enemy, and I need to grouse about something and vent my bile. You know, the neighbors, work, the government, the churches—any likely target, otherwise there is a clog in my normal emotional make-up. After that, when things grew most upsetting, I took to the drink heavily;--in order, to forget the troubles that I had craved to be laid upon my shoulders in the first place. When your mother died that night, I had screamed at her, “How much lip-gloss do you need to hide your bloodless lips?” because she spent a hundred dollars earlier that afternoon when she went shopping in the mall. But when I married your mother, I loved her with every fiber of my being. That is the truth. When you were young life was idyllic, but those days were gone—and there had been thunder in the evening—to foreshadow coming storms—and now, I have lost both Clara Amelia and your mother, after our family situation had become absurd—almost tragic. You are the only one left I have, and you are the only good I can hope good for, Victoria, and so, get well; and as you say you pray, pray for the both of us.’

  ‘Yes, dad; I hear you, ole daddy mine. We should get back to the way we were before in no time, won’t we, and I will ask God to make it all right,--make everything all right for all of us; and take mom and Clara Amelia to His home in heaven.’

  I heard a click at the other end of the line; and so I hung the phone back on its hook. Happening then, to feel my warm cheek, I found it was wet.

  10

  On the night of the last Tuesday of June, I slept fitfully until 2 AM but on waking up, I was overtaken with an impulsion—I felt utterly impelled to go and check on Mrs. Cavendish who was still down at sick bay. A nagging apprehension that she was having a nightmare, or a fit, had seized me, and so, thinking that she was calling for my company, I threw my wrap over my shoulder and went downstairs in search of her. On arriving by her side, I realized that some kind of disaster that I thought had happened to her was misapprehended due to something weighing on my spirits that unearthly hour of the night had instilled a sense of. Standing over Mrs. Cavendish lying on her bed, her chest slowly rising and subsiding, and watching her for a few long minutes, everything returned in perspective; and in the dimmed light, I thought the person whose concept of sharing everything she had was lying here; pierced as I was by whatever dream-notions that were passing through her as denoted by her indescribable face. I thought she was much the same as us all, and much the same as my late mother; we looked up betimes at the same star, while busy with the lore of our lives in the revolutions of its months and years,--our consciousness: always a dark, moist and damp place where pregnant shapes were glimpsed of;--just as busy as other entities who had better claims to fame in this world, with affairs and considerations they alone knew. I looked at my old friend’s form and the thought came to my head, ‘You should rise above your present predicament: you and your people do not share the same fate, you and they are different individuals, because if you respect and honor them still, and you don’t get angry, nobody can take away your dignity, and so—more power to you—you have not done the same thing to me other people have done to you; your existence itself in this, shows your mighty courage—and their cowardice and moral failure. So, kudos, Mrs. Cavendish.’

  Through the window, the round mellow moon was stapled to the shrubbery close to the eaves, and her active service in the fields beyond was within the limited range of my vision. I again thought of Mrs. Cavendish, and the surging and ebbing of the waves of illumination of her highly-strung mind. I stood and watched, and now, as the minutes lengthened�
��while I nodded drowsily, but still unwilling to sleep out the remainder of the night in my own bed, a glimpse told me that the moon now had a powdery band, and a solitary large star winked above the stately trees, inky black in the distance. ‘I am a follower of the trend of youth, and was a consumer of what was popular in those days, and my mind found ready ingestibles in the cultural trends of my generation,’ I thought. ‘I had been mounting a broken staircase to heaven; and the steps had given way under my feet, and now,--in this place, I’m mending. Doleful events in my life have thwarted the inner mechanics of my works, but I feel I am quite ready to spring back and put my life in order.’

  I reflected on Mrs. Cavendish abjuration of sarcastic remarks or comments in everyday usage. ‘Sarcasm should never have been employed in my family—although, lately, and until recently, it has gotten to be the relational style—because sarcasm kills the tender feelings that then have no chance to bloom and flower,’ I reflected, in applying this suddenly as so many lessons gained—in regard to my father’s concocted words that had the same effect, and I realized he had never let his guard down, going about the business of life with melancholy regret and life had thus far been niggardly to him. And I thought, ‘Dad--even if it seemed you have been thwarted all your life, from now on, do things with a full heart. I saw a riotous light unfolding and opening for you in my dream, and thus, I await a new day in which your life shall be spiced with laughter and good things.’

  Suddenly, as I was still watching her, a sigh escaped Mrs. Cavendish’s lips and she opened her eyes wide—as if stung into consciousness—and for a brief space we were locked eyeball to eyeball.

  ‘The Hamplock Picture--’ she gasped, and I thought her heart was only but throbbing riotously within her. I could hear it pounding within the circuits of my brain. Her words held me spellbound, and her impression upon me was she was having a nightmare; except her gaunt reiteration and her stretching out her bony finger to indicate that I should go told me otherwise; and why,--but I understood that I should go to the picture at that very moment! I could tell her very unsubtle showed—that there was something very urgent happening to it precisely now!

  11

  It must have been that while Georg “creepy” Clearwater was not in very profound repose, and especially so, when he was imbibing his nectar from his bottles which he had whole cases of, something in regard to the memory he had of the picture of Augustine Tecumseh Hamplock had darkened his mood to a superlative degree. Tonight, he was filled with a feeling of something vile and reprehensible, under which lurked or flashed something inside his heart—an evil glimpse that he had ever and anon seen in the painted flesh with its pinkish contours and bluish shadows—the scorn and the hatefulness of those eyes, which seemed its very incarnation: that which his spirit must bent under or else destroy; and so, in an unholy hour of this morning, he must rise up from his drunken stupor and destroy it forthwith. He had gotten so far as arranging his bottles of bile in a row and opening them and pour them out on the floor beneath the picture and he had doused the picture itself with the same spirituous stuff—for, he would preserve the world he loved and cherished by removing this blot, this image that has cast a shadow upon himself forever by setting it alight! This he did unceremoniously, with a lighter—and it was then, I came upon him and the spluttering picture, and I heard him—while he was still unaware of my presence—grinding his molars, enunciating how he loathed that ‘odious s.o.b. Hamplock.’

  I saw him utter a loud ‘Hist!’ like the air of a pneumatic tire being let out, making vapid movements as the fire leaped upwards and spread precipitately and ran round the picture frame and licked the painting itself. It was crackling and spitting embers and then, it began to eat into the timbers behind the picture and spreading across to the door of the occupational therapist’s room. The wood was old and dry, and there was suddenly a loud crack—a loud extraordinary crack that split the wall behind the picture and its frame which was now close to being reduced to ashes, without much lapse of time, and I heard goggle-eyed Georg, as his rudimentary side-whiskers trembled, croaked, ‘I see people behind the picture—a woman and child!’

  He was doubling up like a collapsible chair, and he rasped, as if a dirk had gone through his heart, ‘I am frightened like a frightened tomato—I am scared out of my wits,’ and then, ‘I AM LARA AXEL WADE--’ was heard, as a voice from the dim past, a different spirit, spoke through his bluish lips. I thought, he had got to be very angry psychically to physically see a ghost! For, saw, the dead woman’s ghost he did; and I am sure of this.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Back theer! She is back theer! Dead, with her son! Murdered by Mr. Hamplock--’

  At that moment, the fire had quite gone out, extinguished by the musty and wet air gushing out from the now disclosed sealed-up section; which, small as it might be, must also be exposed to the elements, possibly, where the rainwater had seeped in from above, and I realized at once this must be the chimney-place of the old grange and the bodies—now remains of the first wife and her child must have been hidden there. They had starved to death, walled in—and maybe, chained up, in that confined space, no doubt, by the millionaire’s orders. Died horribly they must have! Georg was bawling out, ‘Don’t let her get at me! Away! Away, I say!’ and all his anger was his nerves jangling inside him, and seemed to draw the specters to him. But of them I saw nothing; but only Georg having a fit. At the same time, he was foaming in the mouth, with protruding eyes, all shivering and twitching, with his jaw hanging loosely, as he sat moribundly on the floor, and this told me that he was in danger of having a mental breakdown—or more precisely, a more serious panic attack.

  I went over to him, and squatted beside him, and said to the air, ‘The interior of your consciousness is anything but draughty, its atmosphere is closed to the point of stuffiness. Listen to me Georg, I am here to help you. Don’t do anything, just listen—I will not hurt you or touch you.’

  He did not move, except moaned; as if he were stone blind, his eyes begged as if to say, don’t touch me.

  I said, soothingly,--thus, I was now launched into doing this uncountable and courageous thing for a fellow human being, ‘a touch of my hand might reinforce the effect of my words I am going to say to you. But all right; I won’t touch you.’ And I began to pray, ‘Lord Jesus, heal his heart, soul, nerve, brain, being, mood and blood. Make bright and clear as day what is dark and hidden, whatever is vile and bad in this person, and do You affirm his psyche that is in need of much affirmation right now. Mr. Augustine Hamplock is one, surely, who succeeded in killing his own joy and goodness, and him, you, Georg, do not have to bother about, nor his wife and boy, either. They are dead. They have been dead for a long time. Don’t jump because of the cruelty perpetrated by a bad man, and at the anger of his victims which seeks to draw you into their own vortices. Do not gloat with her because the dastardly crime is exposed! It is said, no sparrow falls to the ground without the Heavenly Father’s knowledge. And, if she has become a perpetual shade, which I think, she had become; she must say, like the rest of us: Father knows best. If she is here, then he must be in the place of unending torment.’

  At this, George’s woeful features turned fierce; his expression between a snarl and a sob, however, subsided: and from this, I knew he was still prejudiced against the man amid the fading symmetry (kind of) of his sympathy for the ghost: the effect of the dead woman’s powerful personality, still lingering for a moment in his misty eyes.

  I went on, ‘He thought his heinous crime would never come to light; but thanks to you, his indomitable will has been foiled—foiled! Thanks to you, Georg! Know that whatever happens, you have served the cause of good tonight! The portrait that you hate is no more—and all that remains are ashes and a glutinous feeling that hangs over time and space. Don’t be befuddled—amazed, or frightened--over what you have done.’

  Then, wrenched from scabbed lips were the words he spat out, ‘He had stayed in that room--’ meaning the
occupational therapist’s office, ‘has it burned to the ground?’

  ‘No; the fire had gone out—by a miracle; or else, you’d be in a lot of trouble. Thankfully, everything is reasonably good, except for the picture, the wall, and possibly, the remains in the closet or chimney behind the wall, but that must be brought to proof.’

  Although Georg was more stable now I still didn’t like the blanched look of his face and his awful, over-brimming eyes. From that moment, I tried to keep him anger-free, and so I said, ‘Ask God to resolve your anger, Georg. If you remain in your anger, which you must have a-plenty of, and frustrations and manifold hurts, you are on uncertain ground with God, and you are unsure of everything. Your heart is not comfortable within your breast. You consciousness does not sit comfortably inside your head, or your brain does not sit comfortably within your head. Listen to me, I say this with respectful assiduity. It is very important that you feel comfortable inside your chest, and next to that, you feel comfortable inside your head. You must fight the feeling of deadness or the sudden thunderous throbbing in your breast, and the pain, squeezing, tension, squelches inside your head—as of running water. If you are angry, or have contrary thoughts, something awful is being laid across your chest; and so, I ask you to take strength from my words. Remove those things that are laid across your heart! Do not be contrary inside your head and heart! Do you perceive something fearful in some kind of pattern you see, which no one else can see? Perception is twofold—it is an overlapping or a superimposition of what one’s heart sees and feels and what one’s mind sees and feels; and they fit into one another like a hand into a glove—each sliding over each other like two transparencies until a visual pattern is arrived at, whether one causing one to feel peace and normalcy or else, causing one to feel a sense of danger. Now—as a matter of the heart, the feeling, the experience, the sense, the thought, the memories of danger—or whatever, whether sudden or immediate danger, or fear, or dread, need to be resolved in the heart; just as the same danger or whatever, needs to be resolved in the head as well. To do this, you have to be comfortable in your head and in your heart and resolve your anger, first off. That is the prerequisite! You must ask God to render null and void, your sense of danger—your belief of danger about you happen in your heart; and sometimes, this is immediate danger, or resolve your sense of danger or the perception of danger, or immediate danger in your heart; and you must ask Him to do this, with respect to your mind. Do this simultaneously, and repeat your prayer to the Almighty, mantra-style, and do not let up until you sensed a discernible change within you. You will soon see I am right in this because your emotions and your belief are reflected back in the things you see. Say to yourself, ‘I am dealing with the feeling of anger in my heart, the belief of danger in my heart, the feeling of anger in my head, and the belief and the perception of danger in my heart; and I feel comfortable in my heart, I feel comfortable in my head. You love the drink: wine gets in between what the heart perceives and what the mind perceives, and what the heart believes and what the mind believes; perception of your consciousness is that smoky place that lies in between: it is filmy, moist, damp and dark. In your heart you sense the dangers that you fear and in your mind, you might sense the dangers that you fear—but you will find Him very near all the same—in both these centers within your person—I mean, your heart and mind. Is your heart still cluttered, Georg? Is your mind still being lodged by unbecoming emotions, Georg?’