The Castle-Town Tragedy and Other Tales of Carnacki, the Ghost-finder

by Barrows, Brandon

  ***

  Carnacki’s story finished, he slumped in his chair, seeming exhausted by having related it. His eyes possessed a melancholy quality that I had never seen before as he took a long draw on his pipe and a sip of his liquor. All was silent until Jessop quietly ventured, “What then?”

  Carnacki fixed his stare on the man. “I made a search of the area, but came up with nothing out of the ordinary. In the morning, the police found poor Jones’s body floating in the Thames, nowhere near where we’d been that night.”

  “And the Serpentine does not connect to the river…” Arkright added unnecessarily.

  Carnacki sighed heavily. “Pointless. Senseless. Jones was destroyed for the love of a friend who may no longer even exist for all I know.” He turned away and swiped a hand across his eyes. Had I not known Carnacki so well, I’d have sworn I even saw the hint of a tear.

  “The poor fellow,” Jessop said, then spoke aloud the thought we’d probably all had. “Did he… have family?”

  Carnacki nodded. “Yes. They will be taken care of, I’ve made sure of it. Malbrey’s wife and children, too; he left them a rather large insurance settlement, I’m told. His ‘lady friend’, however, I’m less certain of, though I will say that I now suspect the blood stains on Malbrey’s clothing that I mentioned were not his own.”

  Involuntarily, I shivered then cleared my throat before prompting Carnacki further. “And the book? This supposed play that began Malbrey’s… metamorphosis?”

  “Burned,” Carnacki answered, matter-of-factly. “I confess I didn’t know what else to do, so, that same night, I returned to the Bibiliophile and burned the ‘play’ and all of Malbrey’s maps. Later, I searched through every record and resource I possess that might have given me further clue, but found only a single reference to the thing—in Von Juntz’s Unaussprechlichen Kulten—and even that was really no help at all, beyond confirming that somewhere, at some time, the thing most likely did exist. Von Juntz also agreed with Jones’s source: The King in Yellow causes madness through some agency of an unknown author. He further posited that the writer was the Marquis de Sade, but I find his reasoning flimsy at best, particularly as the Marquis was not shy about claiming any of his mad debasements. Would not a work that actually caused insanity be his crowning achievement? At any rate, the book Malbrey possessed was blank and I don’t truly believe that an empty edition could have begun these events.”

  “It was Malbrey himself,” Taylor said. “He somehow called this ‘king’ to himself. Do you think he wanted this?”

  Carnacki shook his head very slowly, and then drained his snifter. “Gentleman, right now I don’t know what to think other than that I have said quite enough for one night.” He rose and left the room without giving any of us another glance, breaking his accustomed routine of gently expelling us from his home at the conclusion of a tale. It would have been a shocking way to end an evening at Carnacki’s were it not clear how strongly this particular story’s telling had affected our friend and host.

  I was the first to also rise and, with nothing else to do, the four of us went out into the Embankment and then on to our respective homes, leaving Carnacki to the dark thoughts that haunted him.

  THE LURKER IN THE ROADHOUSE

  When I turned the corner onto Cheyne Walk, I saw Arkright and called out to him so that we might walk together the rest of the way to our mutual friend Thomas Carnacki’s house. We exchanged pleasantries and he conjectured as to the nature of the tale Carnacki had invited us to hear. I cautioned him to keep such thoughts to himself, at which he chuckled and said that he had not forgotten the incident at one of our recent get-togethers when Jessop had inadvertently incited Carnacki’s anger. Carnacki would broach no mention of his stories until he was ready to tell them and none of our circle wished to provoke his ire, which could be considerable. That, however, was some time ago. Carnacki hadn’t invited us to his place in many months and, after our last—rather depressing, I must admit—visit, I had no idea of what to expect, so I planned to tread lightly.

  We arrived at number 427 and after a single knock, Carnacki himself opened the door and admitted us into his home, smiling tightly and gesturing towards the dining room, where Jessop and Taylor were already seated. I was delighted to find our friend smiling and allowed myself to do the same, the greatest measure of my apprehension melting away.

  Dinner was served by Carnacki’s manservant, it apparently being the serving girl’s night off, and we were soon engaged in our meal and a lively conversation. Various topics were discussed but, at Jessop’s mention of his eldest daughter’s latest riding competition, the subject turned to horses and Taylor disclosed that he’d recently come into a sum of money out at Kempton Park after a remarkable run of good luck.

  Everyone congratulated our friend, except Carnacki, who merely grunted and sipped his wine. Knowing our host to be somewhat eccentric at times, Taylor cautiously asked, “Do you not believe in gambling, Carnacki?”

  I, attempting to defuse any possible tension, smiled and remarked, “Perhaps it’s luck that Carnacki doesn’t believe in.”

  Carnacki surprised us all by pointing at me with his fork and declaring, “Oh, I believe in luck all right, Dodgson. You men finish up and I’ll tell you all about why I do!”

  We did and, eager to hear of Carnacki’s latest exploit, followed him into his study to take our accustomed positions in the overstuffed chairs around the big fireplace. Carnacki oiled his throat with a belt of good whiskey, refilled his glass then settled into his deeply-plush chair and announced, “I hope you men are ready to listen.” And seeing that we were, Carnacki began his story.

  ***

  Only two weeks ago, I received a letter from a Mr. James Millard, an American living in Ixham, a village up Suffolk way. The gentleman asked me to pay a visit if I could find the time and promised he could “find a way to make it worth my while” if that’s what it took. Now, you know I don’t conduct my work for profit, but I suppose that seems strange to some people, so they can be forgiven for thinking that I could be swayed by money. Regardless, his letter stated that there was a “safety issue” of an unusual nature that only I was capable of handling and he included enough particulars that I was inclined to believe this was the one event out of a hundred that had some true element of the supernatural in it. Besides that, when lives are in danger I feel I am duty-bound to assist, if I may, and so I took up the case, leaving London by train the very night I received the missive and arriving in Ixham the next morning.

  I had telegrammed Millard before boarding my train and the man was awaiting my arrival at the station with an automobile of an American make. The village was a small one with no locale very far from any other within its borders but, Millard explained to me, his “spread” as he called it was actually a distance outside of town and he had found it advantageous to import his preferred method of transportation. I was glad, actually, as I’d brought the tools of my trade and I had little desire to drag my trunk around behind me.

  We motored north through neat and productive-looking farmlands as my host told me of himself and the situation, at my request.

  Millard, I learned, was the middle child of a successful cattle rancher who had made a fortune in the Wyoming Territory, some years prior to its becoming a state, before retiring “back east” to raise a family. Millard, his older sister and younger brother had grown up with every advantage and lacked for nothing except excitement. Raised on stories of his father’s adventures as a young man, Millard left home at eighteen and traveled extensively, having exploits of his own as a merchant marine, amateur boxer and other occupations while earning for himself a bit of a reputation as a swashbuckler (so he said, at least).

  Upon arriving in England some six months prior to our meeting, after nearly a decade of wandering, Millard had fallen in love with a young lady and the two were swiftly married. His bride, Willa, had only one request: that they settle in some quiet place of her choosing to build their li
fe together. She wanted nothing to do with adventure and Millard, hoping to find some of the stability his life lacked, was only too happy to grant her wish. With the help of a good land agent, the pair found exactly what they were looking for in “the Green House,” an empty manor in Ixham that the county had been trying to sell for some time.

  I chuckled at the name, thinking this was perhaps some sort of joke. Millard grinned and said, “I know, Mr. Carnacki. I laughed, too, when I heard it, but wait ‘til you see the place. There ain’t no other name as appropriate, I assure you.”

  Millard sighed, shook his head and slowed the automobile down to take a tight corner. “’Least based on its looks. There are some other choice words I’d use to describe it these days.”

  Resuming, he told me what he knew of the history of the Green House and I was impressed with his attention to detail.

  It had been built some sixty-odd years ago by Sir Martin Dane, a local lumber baron, as a wedding gift to his much-younger bride, Eileen. As a token of both his affection and his surety of the happiness in their future, he had allowed his new wife to design (with the help of the finest draftsmen) their new home, with no expense spared. The result was a nineteen-room mansion, painted in various shades of green—her favorite color—and named the Green House, Lady Dane apparently being ignorant of the term’s existing usage.

  Sir Martin reportedly could refuse no request from the young woman and so resulted the big house with the silly name, into which Eileen had tried to infuse some of the mystery and romance of the novels she loved and with which she had stocked the library in great quantities. Still, Millard told me, there was a kind of weird beauty in the place.

  “You mentioned in your letter that you’d bought the home and grounds from the county,” I said. “How did it come into government hands?”

  Millard let out a long breath in a wordless gust that spoke volumes. He glanced at me for a moment, and then shook his head as he turned back to the road. “Sad story, that. It surely is.”

  Millard had learned from the locals, while in the process of purchasing the property, that the Danes had lived in the Green House for some thirty years, and that while they seemed healthy and happy they had never been blessed with children. Besides themselves, the only other occupants of the place were the servants, a married couple called Parker and, eventually, their son and daughter. The Danes did not seem to be bothered by their own lack of offspring, however, and were involved in local charities, threw annual Christmas parties to which much of the village was invited, and were generally very well-liked by all.

  Tragically, the couple’s life together ended when Sir Martin was killed in a hunting accident. Worse, that misery did not arrive alone.

  Not long after Dane’s passing it came to light that his business had been foundering for years. In an effort to move out of the lumber business and expand his holdings, Sir Martin had made a number of bad investments and lost a fortune. The Danes were, in fact, nearly destitute and Sir Martin had taken on a deal of debt in order to maintain the lavish lifestyle to which he and his wife were accustomed. Many had, apparently, advised Lady Eileen to sell her opulent estate in order to pay off her husband’s debts and move into more manageable quarters. To this, the lady is to have said, “I built this house and I plan to spend eternity here.”

  All aware of the situation saw this as folly, sure to end in more heartbreak but, miraculously, Lady Eileen somehow managed to pay off her husband’s debts and hold onto the Green House. Rumors swirled: that she was involved in illicit business dealings, that she had a secret family fortune she’d never told her husband of, that she was a witch who sold ludicrously expensive potions and charms guaranteed to work, and others even more outré. Whatever the secret of her new-found solvency, the lady kept mum and, increasingly as the years passed, kept to herself. Merely a memory were the extravagant parties and charitable donations; even visits to friends in the area were virtually unheard of. No one could blame Lady Eileen for living frugally, but the lack of social interaction was puzzling from a woman who had always seemed to live for it. Still, things must inevitably assume a ‘new normal’ and the lady lived in her home for another three decades before passing away at the age of seventy-nine.

  Millard paused, then, and said, “Long story, I know. Who’d have thought a silly old house in an out of the way place like Ixham could have such history, huh?”

  “You would be surprised,” I rebutted.

  By the time of Eileen Dane’s passing, Millard continued, the Green House had seen better days. The Parkers, the couple who had served the Danes, had long-since passed and their daughter, whose name Millard did not know, had married and moved away many years before. The sole remaining servant was Geoffrey Parker, who had lived his entire life at the Green House in service to the Danes, and was himself a man of almost fifty years when his mistress died. The Green House was his home as much as Lady Eileen’s, and those who had known him had said that he considered her to be a sort of second mother, or favorite aunt. As she had no children of her own, it seemed only natural for the lady to extend a kind of maternal affection to the man she’d watched grow up in her house.

  Lady Dane’s death was hard on Parker, but the biggest shock was yet to come: the woman whom he thought of as family, and whom he’d assumed felt the same about him, had left him nothing with her passing. In point of fact, she had left no will at all and, as Geoffrey was not legally related to her in any way, the county took possession of the Green House and all associated properties. Deprived of home and what had passed for family, Parker took to drinking heavily in the public houses of Ixham and ranting of the cruelty of Lady Dane. When what little money he had ran out, he began spinning wild, yet vague, tales of the goings-on at the Green House in exchange for food and drink purchased by those eager to unravel the mysteries Ixham had been conjecturing on for so many years. Claiming when drunk that he even knew the secret of Lady Dane’s wealth, Parker would jabber like a monkey but say nothing of any true substance. When sober, he’d deny it all with the utmost vehemence. Becoming convinced that Parker was merely fabricating it all to pay his way; the villagers quickly grew bored with his melodrama and began to ignore him, chalking his diatribes up to the drink, sorrow and self-pity. After a few more months of bemoaning his fate and finding no one willing to listen, Parker eventually simply disappeared.

  “That’s where I come in,” Millard said, finishing the lengthy preamble to his tale. “The Green House sat empty for about a year or so, ‘fore we bought it.”

  I learned then that the Millards had turned the Green House into a roadside tavern—Willa having been raised in her family’s own similar business—a place where they could both work and live. Ixham was a small and somewhat sleepy hamlet, but it lay on a potentially very busy roadway and with a great deal of good quality land all around, outside interests were beginning to take note with an eye towards development. Before long, the young couple had created a place for travelers and locals alike to have a drink, a meal or to find a bed, if desired. The transition was relatively easy with some modernizing renovations and, in a short time, the newly-christened Green House Tavern began to attract customers.

  Things went well for a few weeks. Willa, along with a cook and a couple of girls who both served customers and helped clean the place, ran the tavern as tightly as any ship and James discovered he possessed his father’s talent for weaving stories of his adventures. As customers from Ixham and all around came for good food and interesting tales, the Green House soon earned itself a reputation for serving the finest of entertainment, food and spirits.

  Unfortunately, chaps, it seemed to the residents of the Green House that there were spirits of two kinds.

  There had been nothing out of the ordinary while renovations were underway or immediately afterwards, but by the end of the third month of the Green House’s new life, trouble began. Throughout the inn, mostly late at night but occasionally during the evening—or even, rarely, the daytime—unnat
ural sounds could be heard: clunks and scrapes and so forth seemed to come from within the walls or the ceilings or below the floors. Gusts of air moved freely in closed rooms and doors opened and closed of their own volition, slamming in the night, and at least once opening before the eyes of a group of startled guests and employees. Perhaps relating to this, cold drafts blew randomly in areas where there were no windows. A voice had even been heard in several areas—though particularly at night in room number nine, which had been Lady Dane’s bedchamber—mumbling to itself. Opinions differed as to what it was saying, but more than one person had heard it and there was no doubt at all that it was real. In fact, one guest in the room even claimed to have woken in the night to see a white-haired old woman sitting at the foot of the bed leering at her. The guest’s shrieks of terror had brought Millard running, but upon his entrance there was no one present but the shocked and frightened woman.

  At roughly this same time, one of the Green House’s two serving girls, a Marla Bell, disappeared in the dead of the night—apparently scared off by the goings-on. Her leaving without a word to the Millards birthed some rumors amongst the villagers, but all agreed that good help was hard to find and that a new employee of a fledgling business abandoning their post was not unheard of. Another girl was swiftly hired and the Millards’ newest employee seemed an even better fit than the girl she had replaced.

  As unnerving as all of this was, most distressing to Millard was the discouraging of visitors to the tavern. He couldn’t blame them, but was of course troubled all the same. A few who had become both regulars and friends continued to patronize the place, but their business alone could not sustain the Green House for long. Others, mostly from outside of the Ixham area, would visit simply to see if the stories were true; if they had some unusual experience they would spread word of it and if not, would claim the Millards were perpetuating some sort of hoax. In either case, these people rarely returned and were doing the tavern no good.