I was interrupted from this curious train of thought by a feeling I was more familiar with: that I was suddenly not alone in the room. I could see nothing in the pitch-blackness, for the night was overcast and not even a sliver of moonlight entered the room’s small windows, but didn’t dare flick on my light. Controlling my breathing so as to minimize even the slightest noise I might have made, I went stock-still and listened intently. For several minutes, I heard nothing and was just beginning to convince myself that I had imagined any disturbance when I finally caught a very faint sound that I could neither pinpoint the origin of nor definitely classify.
I strained my ears to their absolute limits and doing so, decided that it was coming from somewhere out in the hallway. It was only intermittent, however—very slow and faint as if far away, though I was sure it was becoming incrementally louder as I listened. It came to me of a sudden that the sound was like that of someone crawling on their belly an inch at a time—swish… bump; swish… bump—along the floor or perhaps with their back pressed to a wall, but I still could not tell from where it was coming. As the possibilities raced through my mind, there arose a prickling sensation on the back of my neck and within an instant; I was all goose-flesh and nerves.
It took some work to get hold of a bit of courage, but I did and remained where I was, listening sharply. As I waited, the sound grew louder, but still I could not locate its source. In fact, it seemed to be assaulting me from all sides as I turned my head this way and that in the darkness, trying to find the direction from which it seemed loudest. Finally, I realized that the sound really was coming from all around me and was actually inside the walls!
With this revelation, my heart raced and my palms began to sweat. I had gone over absolutely every inch of that room and those surrounding it and had found no means for any human agency to cause the goings-on in that place, leaving only the supernatural as explanation. With my heart thumping, my breath started to get a little ragged and I had to use every ounce of restraint I possessed to calm myself. As I did, I realized that the shuffling sound was becoming a sort of soft rasping, which had begun a moment before, but that I had attributed to my own breathing. Now, I realized its source was not only external, but directly in front of me as it grew louder and harsher, like something being dragged across a hard surface.
I aimed my revolver into the darkness ahead of me without realizing that I had drawn it. The feel of it was comforting in my fist and, somewhat steadier, I thought to also aim my camera that way with my free hand. Steeling myself against whatever was now only feet from me, I began snapping pictures, hoping to catch sight of the culprit at last. With the first snap, the room burst into sudden brilliance, dazzling my eyes uncomfortably, but at the second, there was a loud pop as the bulb in my flash blew. The unexpected consequence of this was that the grating sound I had heard suddenly grew very loud, just for a split second, and then disappeared entirely, replaced by a sudden and unexpected gust of cold, stale-smelling air.
I leapt to my feet then and dashed from the room, all thoughts of courage forgotten in the wake of these abrupt new developments, and back to my own chamber, where I slammed shut and latched the door, before sitting on the edge of the bed and struggling to regain normal breathing and heart rate. A few minutes later, nominally calm, I searched out a spare bulb for my light and trudged back to room number nine with a freshly-lit lantern in hand, feeling embarrassed and foolish and very glad that no one had seen my cowardly display.
Back in the room, I retrieved my flashlight, chagrined to find that I had not only dropped it in my mad dash, but had inadvertently knocked over my camera, as well, without realizing it. A quick inspection, however, showed it to be undamaged. I gave the room a once-over, dismayed to discover that all the seals I had left in place were still unbroken despite my knowing for a fact that something had entered the room. A fresh sweat broke out on my brow at this new brush with the unknown, but I shook it off and gathered up my things then scuffed out the pentacle I’d made and left the room without bothering to reseal the door.
Returning to my own chamber, I put away my gear and dressed for bed but was too wound-up to sleep. Instead, I sat on the foot of the bed for nearly an hour pondering the night’s events, having a good, long smoke and regaining my composure. Eventually, however, weariness took its toll and I slipped beneath the covers, doused the lantern and closed my eyes. Not a full minute later, however, I sat bolt upright in the darkness, unnerved afresh by the sound of my clearly-spoken name!
I leapt from the bed, clicked on my flashlight and searched the room all over… but found nothing. There was no repetition of the event, nor any evidence that I was not alone and so, frustrated, exhausted and now unsure if my room was even safe in which to sleep, I returned to bed and lay awake for several hours. Just as the blackness outside of my window began to turn gray, I finally drifted off into a fitful slumber.
About mid-morning, I awoke to Mrs. Millard’s firm knock at my door; she asked if I was interested in breakfast and I was, indeed. I gathered a few things and the two of us went together down into the kitchen where Mrs. Brown had saved me a bit from the meal shared earlier by the rest of the household. Over breakfast, I learned that Henry had already taken his leave of the Green House and I was sorry to have missed saying goodbye. In light of our disagreeing over the reality of the supernatural, I wondered what Henry would have thought of my experiences a scant few hours earlier and regretted not having the opportunity to prove his way of thinking wrong. Still, he otherwise seemed an excellent fellow; I would have liked to wish him well and said as much. Both ladies agreed with the sentiment.
After a few words to the cook about things that needed doing around the place, Mrs. Millard went off about her business elsewhere in the Green House, but Mrs. Brown stayed to tidy up a bit and chatted with me as I ate. I took the opportunity to ask after Claire and Lizzy.
“Oh, poor Claire is sore shaken, she is. The girl was just a wreck this morning.”
“And Lizzy?” I asked, curious that Mrs. Brown had focused only on the one girl.
She gave me a queer look and said, “In very fair spirits, considering. For all her screaming and crying last night, this morning she practically shrugged the whole thing off as if it was a trifle.”
“Interesting,” I said, sipping from my coffee-cup. My companion clearly expected something more from me just then, but I did not rise to the occasion, keeping my thoughts to myself.
When we were through, I helped Mrs. Brown wash the rest of the dishes and had her make me a sandwich for later on, then walked into town in search of a photographer who would allow me the use of his facilities to develop the photographs I’d taken. It was a long walk, but a marvelous day and the exercise did me good.
There was only one professional photographer in Ixham, and I counted myself lucky that there was even that. Fortunately, the man was well-familiar with me—as was, apparently, the whole town by that point—and he was more than happy to help me develop my film. I declined his offer of assistance, but expressed my gratitude for the use of his dark-room and swiftly set to work. I had several good photos as it turned out and when all was done but the setting, I left the prints in the photographer’s oven to dry and went to explore Ixham a little.
Beyond a main street where the majority of commerce took place, Ixham was little more than a collection of small homes, but it was a charming place and the day was lovely, clear and warm. Everyone I met was congenial and more than a few seemed eager to chat and so I did, talking up perhaps seven or eight different people of various ages and walks of life, gathering tidbits about the Green House and those who had lived there over the years. By and large, the villagers’ stories overlapped, but I did take away a few new items and enjoyed the socializing besides.
Mid-afternoon, I had my lunch in a little park next to the village church and, afterwards, returned to the photographer’s shop to collect my snaps. I thanked the man again, and then returned to the park where I sat on
a bench and studied each picture carefully. While the photos were of excellent quality and focus considering the hastiness with which the majority had been taken, there was nothing I could use in most of them. There were two, however, in which I saw something I was unsure about. Whether it was a clue or not was uncertain and determining their value required further investigation. Still, what I saw added to the theory I was building and I was pleased to make progress at last.
Late that afternoon, I returned to the Green House, just making it back ahead of a nasty storm that came up out of nowhere, in spite of the earlier weather. It was of the kind that lies upon the world like a sopping-wet blanket and simply drowns everything and I was lucky to have gotten away with only a light dousing.
After changing into dry clothing, I conferred privately with Millard, explaining my suspicions and outlining to him what I intended to do next before asking him to gather his wife and the staff. When we were all together, I told them, “I had a terrible fright in room nine last night, and I now believe that we are dealing with an enormous supernatural power that I am unable to defeat with the means currently at hand.”
At this, there were dismayed looks all around and some murmuring, but I made my face a mask of gravity to impress upon them all the seriousness of the matter. “Millard is going to take me into town to catch the night train back to London so that I may collect additional gear and, if all goes to plan, I hope to return here by tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, you must all swear to not only keep out of that awful room upstairs, but promise to be at your most cautious anywhere in the house. I fear the entity which has taken up residence here is growing bolder and I cannot say where, if anywhere, in this place is entirely safe.” There were further unnerved expressions and some words of dismay, but all present agreed to my requests.
Liam shifted nervously from one foot to another, then spoke up saying, “Mr. Millard, sir, if you don’t mind… seein’ as how we ain’t supposed to really be in the house, anyway, I wondered if I might take a few days to visit me mum. If you don’t need me ‘round here that is, of course. Truth be told,” here he cast a despairing glance my way. “These past few days have gotten me in a fright worse’n any since the trouble started, especially now if what Mr. Carnacki says is true.” He turned my way again, with an expression like a just-struck dog. “Begging pardon, Mr. Carnacki.”
Waving my hand dismissively, I answered, “Never apologize for good sense, man.”
Millard nodded understandingly and said, “Sure thing, Liam. Do me a favor, though, if you’re leavin’ anyway: take the car and bring Carnacki back into town for me, will ya?” He clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder and said, “The ladies an’ me’ll hold down the fort here.”
Liam seemed immensely relieved at this, but it was Mrs. Brown who spoke next. “I should think it might be a good idea for all of us to visit relations for a day or two.” She turned and took Claire and Lizzy each by the hand and threw a meaningful look at Mrs. Millard. “My sister lives only the next town over and I thought the four of us could—”
But Willa Millard cut her off, shaking her head and frowning. “No, Miriam. I appreciate the offer, and Claire and Lizzy can go if they want, but this is my home and I have to stick it out.”
I was glad of Mrs. Millard’s courage and, apparently, so was Mrs. Brown as she sighed heavily, but smiled halfheartedly, and said, “Then how can I do any less, dear?” Neither of the two serving girls said anything, but I could tell that Claire was less than enthused; Lizzy remained impassive, seeming perhaps a bit stunned by this development.
At any rate, soon the car was ready to make the trip back to Ixham and—
***
“Surely, you didn’t leave those poor souls to fend for themselves, Carnacki!” Taylor interjected.
Carnacki scowled mightily and growled, “Do you take me for some heartless dastard?” Under his gaze, Taylor withered and seemed to shrink back into his chair.
Carnacki composed himself and asked, “If I may continue?”
***
As I would have said, before long, the Millards’ car was ready to make the trip back into town, Liam and Millard himself within and bundled up tightly against the chill and the weather. I, however, had neither left nor had I planned to.
In fact, by the time the two men left the Green House, I was secreted within room number nine, the door having been sealed from the outside with wax by Liam before his departure. I had outlined a plan to Millard during our brief conference and into it I had drafted Liam’s assistance after he’d agreed to bring me back into town. I didn’t like the idea of letting any more than were necessary in on my scheme, but it couldn’t be helped.
And so I sat, quiet as a mouse, in the darkness of the room and the silence of the nearly-empty house. The afternoon had grown dark with storm but, with the falling of night, the blackness became almost impenetrable. It was hell on the nerves, I’m not afraid to say—all those long hours of sitting in the pitch black with nothing to do but think and stare and stare and think. And all the time, my thoughts growing ever darker to match my surroundings. It was mind-numbing and several times I nearly succumbed to a sort of self-hypnosis, despite the possible danger I faced.
I crouched in that room for hours and, eventually, my patience was rewarded. I couldn’t be sure of the time, but definitely much earlier than on previous nights, I heard that distinctive shuffling sound again and this time far louder and faster—as if whatever caused it was emboldened by the house’s near-vacancy. Gripping my revolver in one hand and my flashlight in the other, I sucked in a deep breath and tensed.
In another moment, there came a very-faint metallic click and that peculiar rasping, grating sound appeared, simultaneously and by sheer good luck, with a flash of lightning that lit up the room for the briefest interval, revealing the entire fireplace swinging out from the wall! The crack of thunder followed immediately and I let out my breath, then gasped sharply as another lightning strike showed, passing through the newly-opened portal, the ghastly-white visage of a white-haired, elderly woman.
My first thought was The ghost of Lady Eileen? But no! It was nothing so fantastic, I knew, and flicked on my flashlight, pointing it directly at the old woman and dazzling her with its sudden, brilliant glare.
“Stay where you are,” I warned but, even blinded, the surprised trespasser knew where her exit was and rushed madly back towards the passageway behind the fireplace. I was entirely prepared for this, however, and leapt up, beating her to the opening by a fraction of a second. Pocketing my revolver, I shifted the flashlight to my off-hand and gripped the old woman’s wrist tightly, preventing her escape.
She fought, of course: screaming, wailing, gnashing her teeth and attempting to claw my face with her free hand, but I had little trouble in restraining her. The poor thing was barely more than skin and bones so I tried to remain as gentle as possible while protecting myself from harm. Despite having nothing in common, the woman called to mind my own mother by their similar ages, if nothing else, and I reminded myself of how I would have liked her to be treated in the same situation.
Still, there was mischief to be answered for, if not outright crime, and so I dragged the thrashing woman out into the hallway, where we were met by Mrs. Millard, Brown and the girls, Claire and Lizzy, drawn by the terrible sounds of my captive’s wordless lamentations. With confusion, and perhaps a dash of anger, on her face, Mrs. Millard demanded to know what was going on and who my captive was.
“Your ‘ghost’,” I answered. “Mary Higgins, nee Parker.”
At this, Mrs. Brown’s mouth gaped just for a moment, before her hand rose to cover it. Then she regained herself and said softly, “My word, I think it is. But... what is she doing here? She married and left the area decades ago!”
Now more confused than ever, Mrs. Millard looked this way and that: at the cook, at me, at Mary Higgins. The girls, Lizzy and Clare, had their own reactions, of course. Claire seemed quite relieved that this newest
trouble was seemingly of a human origin. Lizzy, however, remained stoic, trying to give no trace of any reaction, though I noticed the barest hint of perspiration breaking out on her forehead.
Willa Millard apparently remembered her status as landlady and, wearing an imperious look, said simply, “Explain.”
Quickly, I did. “Mary Parker did, indeed, marry and move away from Ixham many years ago, leaving her younger brother Geoffrey the only remaining servant in the Dane household. Geoffrey,” I reminded them, “Had continued to faithfully serve Lady Eileen for many years and was heartbroken by her passing—made worse by the discovery that she had entirely neglected to think what might become of him after the end of her life. Your brother,” Here, I looked sternly my prisoner; she met my gaze defiantly.” Quickly exhausted what little money he possessed in an attempt to drink away his sorrows and, with nowhere to go, ended up on your doorstep.” I redirected my attention to Mrs. Millard and the Green House staff, adding, “I had learned of Parker’s plan to reconnect with his sister during one of my conversations with the villagers earlier today. By itself a detail that was insignificant, but it fit nicely into the theory I was forming.”
The rest of my explanation after that was merely educated conjecture but, as it happened, close enough to the truth that not even Mary Higgins bothered to correct me.
“When Geoffrey told his whole, sad tale to his sister,” I continued. “She seethed at the perceived insult that Lady Eileen had done to her family. After all, the Green House was their home as much as the Danes’.” At this, a new wave of rage rolled across Mary Higgins’s face and I knew I was right.
The Castle-Town Tragedy and Other Tales of Carnacki, the Ghost-finder Page 9