‘Oh, I say,’ chimed in Sharman. ‘You don’t mean to say that she vanished into the tree trunk?’
‘That is exactly what did happen. One moment she was there, with those white arms about her, and the next she had gone. I approached the tree and threw the beam of my torch over it, but there was no sign of Eileen. I sat there for nearly five hours, and the sun had risen when she appeared again just as mysteriously as she had disappeared. She was quite unconscious of her surroundings and moved off like a sleep-walker. I followed and saw her safely back to her room.
‘During breakfast (at which meal Eileen did not appear) I reported the whole occurrence to Lady Canton and strongly advised her to have the Devil’s Oak destroyed. She agreed that it should be done at once, but later told me it would have to be left over until the following day as the gardener had no axe large enough, and it was necessary to obtain one from Taunton.
‘Eileen came down for lunch and I noticed she was looking tired and languid. She went back to her room after the meal and did not appear again that day. We retired early and the usual guards were posted at Eileen’s door.
‘I slept soundly until a knocking aroused me. I was surprised to find it was morning and the sunlight was streaming through the windows. At the door was one of the servants who had been instructed to keep watch. The woman confessed that she had fallen asleep and had only just then awakened to find the door of Eileen’s room open and the bed empty.
‘I struggled into some clothes and, with two of the gardeners, made my way up to the wood. The place seemed more sinister than ever, and I had a horrible feeling that it was gloating over something. I was not left in doubt very long. A white thing hung suspended from one of the lower branches of the Devil’s Oak. It was Eileen Canton and she had been dead for some hours. She had hanged herself with the cord of her dressing-gown and her dead eyes were glazed with a look of unspeakable horror.’
‘Good Lord! How bloody!’ ejaculated Sharman.
Dennis ignored the interruption and went on. ‘I needn’t tell you how we bore that frail body back to the house, of the mother’s sorrow, and the gruesome details of the coroner’s court. The verdict was the usual one of “Suicide during temporary insanity”. But I knew that Lady Eileen was never insane. She was compelled to take her own life by the evil domination of the mind of a creature whose soul could find no peace in death.
‘The day after the funeral I arranged for the destruction of the Devil’s Oak. Two stout labourers lopped off the larger branches and then felled the tree. As the trunk toppled over to the ground something rolled out of the hollow bole. It was covered with green moss, but as I picked it up I knew instinctively what it was. It was the skull of a man. And then I remembered the note written by James Canton to Miles Roper, ordering him to dispose as he had directed of “that for which I have paid my life”. His bargain with the Devil had been for youth—personal beauty. It was his head, the head upon which time had made no impression until after death, that had to be concealed in the tree under which he was accustomed to meet his satanic master and where he met his end. That tree had become a force of evil, the abode of Canton’s earth-bound spirit, and from it he took his toll of life and virtue.
‘Little remains to be told. The tree, with its branches, was burnt and the ashes scattered to the winds. With Lady Canton’s permission, in which the vicar unwillingly acquiesced, I descended into the Canton vault and opened the coffin of the first Baron. As I suspected, the head was missing. I placed the mouldering relic with the rest of the bones, and restored the casket to its niche. It was thus I made an end of the evil that had haunted Fairy Wood for three centuries, that had brought about the deaths of four innocent girls, and had broken the heart of a very noble lady.’
‘But,’ said Sharman, ‘that tale hasn’t anything to do with tree-worship.’
‘Perhaps not,’ admitted Dennis. ‘But it does show that earth-bound spirits may sometimes dwell in trees and that such trees are often associated with evil powers. It’s not a nice story, but it happens to be true.’
‘The girl certainly hanged herself,’ agreed Sharman. ‘I remember the case quite well.’
‘And I shall never forget it,’ said Dennis. ‘You might press the bell, Sharman. We’ll have another drink’
Twisted Face
I AM NOT a faddy kind of chap, although my trade is that of a writer, and writers are popularly supposed to indulge in all kinds of queer likes and dislikes. Personally I have no patience with those young amateurs who talk glibly about inspiration and how they must have green rooms, or blue rooms, or pink rooms before they can write a single word. The much misused word ‘inspiration’ is, in far too many cases, a mere tag to impress the layman. The professional author writes for his bread and butter, with a little jam if he is lucky, and if he had to wait until he was inspired he would often go supperless to bed.
Normally I can write anywhere and at any time, but I do prefer to write in some quiet spot where I am not likely to be disturbed at inconvenient hours. For this reason I rented Rose Cottage, near Sutton in Surrey.
As soon as I saw the place I knew it would suit me. It was in one of those charming lanes where bluebells cluster under the hedges in April, and honeysuckle makes a tangle of perfumed glory in the summertime. It was a half-timbered, thatched building with tiny windows of leaded lights and a small overgrown garden. Evidently it had been vacant for some years, for the house-agent’s board was dingy and weather-worn and the garden gate had fallen from its hinges.
But I liked the look of Rose Cottage and, after walking all round it and peeping through the windows, drove back into Sutton to interview the firm whose name was on the board.
The agent was an elderly man and I thought he gave a surprised gasp when I mentioned the house. It may have been my imagination, but in view of after events I don’t think it was. Well, he was very polite, suggested I should take the key and inspect the interior of the property, and quoted an amazingly low rental. I offered to take him along with me, but he pleaded pressure of business and so I returned alone.
In spite of a certain forlorn air and an odour of mustiness, the cottage proved ideal for my purpose. There was one large room and a tiny kitchen on the ground floor, and two fair-sized bedrooms above. Of course there was no bathroom and no electric light, and the only water supply was from a well at the back of the house. But I was charmed with the place and determined to rent it for a year or so.
The agent (whose name, by the way, was Nevin) seemed surprised that I should have made up my mind so quickly. He intimated that the owner would be willing to do a few necessary repairs, and instructed his clerk to draw up a temporary agreement. Everything seemed straightforward, and yet Mr Nevin had a doubtful and hesitant air. We discussed the weather, the general political situation, and a number of other minor subjects. He had read my latest book and was kind enough to say he liked it. All the time he tapped on the desk with a paper-knife and fidgeted with the pen-tray. I had the impression that he was ill at ease. Suddenly he bent forward and said, ‘Excuse me, Mr Scott, but are you a nervous man?’
‘Not at all,’ I replied, laughing. ‘In fact, I may almost claim to have no nerves at all. But why do you ask?’
‘Just a feeling of responsibility, my dear sir, which is hardly compatible with my business instincts. There is a foolish superstition in these parts concerning Rose Cottage. It is reputed to be haunted—not anything horrible, you will understand. Even those who believe in the ghost admit it to be harmless.’
‘It would take more than a ghost to scare me from Rose Cottage,’ I boasted. ‘I have been in many houses that are said to be haunted, but I have never yet seen anything of the supernatural.’
The old chap appeared to be relieved, and just then the clerk came in with the agreement. I signed it at once, and arranged to be at the cottage on the following Saturday to meet the decorator and give him his instructions. We parted on very cordial terms, and I promised to send the cheque for the first qu
arter’s rent immediately I returned to London.
I was down at the cottage by ten o’clock on the Saturday, and the decorator man arrived about half an hour later. He came from Dorking and seemed to know his job thoroughly. In his way he was quite an artist and suggested improvements which would add to my comfort and yet in no way spoil the atmosphere of the place. I realised that I could safely leave the whole business in his hands. He was a joiner as well as a decorator, and I instructed him to build a small garage in one corner of the garden.
The next job was to try to find someone to ‘do’ for me. Sutton was the nearest place of any size, but I had noticed a few cottages on the edge of Nonsuch Park. I decided to try these first. A woman was in the garden of one of them, and I called out and asked if she knew of any person who would care to attend to my modest wants.
‘Where is your house?’ she inquired. I explained that it was Rose Cottage, just about a mile and a half up the road.
‘Rose Cottage!’ she exclaimed. ‘You wouldn’t catch me going inside the place, but old Mrs Burrows might be glad of the job.’
Mrs Burrows, it appeared, was a widow who lived in the last of the row of cottages. She turned out to be a frail little woman with a very sweet face. We liked each other at sight, and I explained my requirements.
‘You wouldn’t be wanting me to sleep in the house, sir?’ she asked anxiously. I assured her I should only need her services during the day, and she could return home each night.
‘Then I don’t mind taking it on,’ she said. ‘I could do with the extra money, as I only have my small pension. But I wouldn’t like to have to stay in Rose Cottage at night, for people do say it’s haunted.’
‘A silly rumour,’ I replied. ‘I’ve yet to find a person who has actually seen a ghost, and the cottage will be very cheerful by the time the decorators have finished with it.’
So it was decided that Mrs Burrows should clean the place and prepare my meals as soon as I was able to take up residence in my new abode. That was three weeks later. The decorators took a fortnight to get the cottage ready, and then I had to buy furniture. I also hired a man to straighten up the garden after the new garage had been erected. On the whole, I was delighted with my home when I took possession of it on a morning in early May. Mrs Burrows had a cheerful fire burning on the hearth, and a pleasant smell of cooking came from the little kitchen. She served up an excellent luncheon, and afterwards I ran her into Sutton to do some shopping.
It was dusk by the time we returned, and Mrs Burrows at once set about preparing another meal for me. This, according to an arrangement we had previously made, was served on a tray, so that the lady could leave for home and I could just carry the dishes into the kitchen when I had finished. The dinner was very satisfying and, having removed the tray, I drew an easy chair up to the fire and made myself comfortable with a pipe.
Like most men, I always feel drowsy after a good meal, and I must have dozed off for a few moments. I awakened with a start because the bowl of my pipe was burning my hand. At once I became aware of a gentle tapping on the window-pane. Rising, I crossed the room and pulled the curtains aside. It was quite dark outside, but in the light from my lamp I could see a small girl standing by the window. She appeared to be about eight or nine years old, and had fair hair which rippled over her shoulders in masses of curls. As I gazed at her in astonishment she looked up and her eyes met mine. Never have I seen such horror and fear in the eyes of any human being. Feeling that she must be fleeing from something terrible I rushed over to the door, and went outside with the intention of inviting her to enter the house. There was no sign of her. I searched the garden, I even went into the road and looked up and down, but there was no trace of the little girl with the flaxen hair.
Thoroughly mystified, I returned to the house. The cosy room, until then so cheerful and warm, seemed to have changed. There was a sinister air about it, and it was quite cold. With a laugh at my foolish fears I poked the fire into a blaze, and settled down again in my chair.
I relit my pipe and was idly turning over the pages of Punch when I became unpleasantly conscious of the fact that I was no longer alone. Somebody else was in the room with me. The sensation gave me a nasty shock. I felt a tingling down my spine, and it was some moments before I plucked up sufficient courage to raise my eyes. When I did so I almost cried out in fear. Seated in the chair on the opposite of the fire was the figure of a man. There was something extraordinary about him. Although I was literally frozen with terror I noticed that his head was fixed in a peculiar manner so that, although he was sitting square in the chair, his face was peering over his left shoulder. And that face! It was twisted and distorted into the most evil expression imaginable. I could not move: I could not cry out. Even as I stared fascinated at those hellish features the figure slowly faded away.
My first inclination, when I had sufficiently recovered to think, was to leave the cottage and seek other accommodation for the night. However, I pulled myself together, blamed a heavy dinner for a ghastly nightmare, and tried to settle down to work. But it was impossible to write. I kept glancing over at the empty chair, half expecting that twisted face to be leering at me again. About eleven o’clock I packed up and went to bed.
The bedroom was immediately over the sitting room, and for some time I was kept awake by a sound like something swinging to and fro in the chimney. At last I fell asleep, only to be awakened within an hour by a heavy fall in the room below. I jumped out of bed and, for some unaccountable reason, lifted the blind and looked out of the window. The moon was shining, and in the garden, under an apple tree close up to the hedge, was the little girl with the fair curls. I flung the window open and called to her. She lifted her face, and in the half light I saw that her neck was scarred by a great gash—a wound still dripping gouts of blood. It was horrible. I almost fainted, and when I looked again the girl had gone.
Fortunately my nerves are strong, and I soon recovered from the shock and remembered the noise from the room below. Taking my electric torch I went cautiously to the head of the stairs. The house was quiet, but I knew that something or somebody was in the sitting-room. I crept down and opened the door. My light danced upon the table and chairs, and finally came to rest upon a dark form lying before the fireplace. It was then I became aware of the foul odour of decay and corruption which seemed to fill the room. The thing on the floor was a dead body—the body of the man with the twisted face. With a shriek I fled upstairs and locked myself in the bedroom. . . .
How I passed the long night hours I do not know. Dawn was never more welcome, but I did not stir from the room until I heard Mrs Burrows moving about in the kitchen. I cannot say what I expected to find when I went downstairs, but there was nothing unusual. The old lady looked at me rather strangely, but she made no remark other than a polite ‘Good morning, sir.’
Soon after breakfast I got out the car and drove into Sutton to visit the house-agent. Nevin had not arrived at his office, and I had to wait about half an hour before he bustled in. He was not at all surprised to see me, and at once invited me into his private room. ‘Well,’ he asked, after I was seated, ‘what have you seen?’
‘Then you know?’ I exclaimed.
‘I know why other tenants have left the cottage, and I know why neither the owner nor myself will attempt to hold you to your agreement.’
‘Then, in God’s name, tell me what it means,’ I demanded. ‘The child with the fair hair and the man with the twisted face.’
‘It all happened long before my time,’ he replied. ‘I have only heard the story from others, but I think the facts are correct in the main. Over eighty years ago the house was tenanted by a man named Oakwood. This person, as the result of an accident in childhood, suffered from a peculiar deformity—his head was twisted in a way which gave him the appearance of always looking over his left shoulder. He was not a pleasant person. Everyone in the district feared him, and the children often threw stones at him as he passed along the road. He
grew to dislike all children—in fact, to hate any contact with his fellow-men.
‘In the summer of 1855 a young couple rented The Gables, a large house about a mile away from Rose Cottage. They had one child—a little fair-haired girl called Mary. One day in August this child disappeared. The anxious parents searched the countryside night and day, but could find no trace of her. Then someone said she had been seen entering Oakwood’s garden. The man was interviewed but strenuously denied that he had ever seen Mary. The police began to take an interest in his movements, and it was obvious that they suspected him of making away with the little girl.
‘And then Oakwood disappeared. A hue and cry was raised, but he could not be traced. The cottage was searched and a blood-stained razor was found in the man’s bedroom. Some weeks later two police officers were carrying out a systematic search in the main downstairs room when something came hurtling down the chimney. It was the body of the man Oakwood, already in an advanced state of decomposition. He had evidently climbed into the wide chimney and hanged himself from a hook about half-way up. The mystery was never entirely solved, for, from that day to this, no trace has been found of Mary Hamilton.’
‘Did they search the garden—did they dig just under the apple tree by the hedge?’ I inquired.
‘I cannot say. It all took place so long ago and perhaps it is better not to re-open the matter.’
The old man very courteously tore up the agreement, and even offered to return the deposit I had paid. But, of course, I would not hear of that.
I never slept in Rose Cottage again, but some days later I met the owner of the house. He turned out to be quite a pleasant person, and made me tell him the story of my experience. Nothing would content him but to dig under the apple tree . . . I was there when the labourers, hired for the task, unearthed the bones of a small girl.
June Morning
THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS Page 4