‘Certainly, ma’am. I’ll see to it immediately,’ replied Sam. ‘It will be lovely up there in the sunshine, but don’t stay too late. Should you linger up there until after eight o’clock let me advise you to return by the high road, and on no account to take the old road which leads up from the river. It may appear to be a short cut back to the inn, but it isn’t safe after dusk.’
‘Why?’ we all exclaimed in different tones of curiosity.
‘Well,’ he replied, scratching his head and looking uncomfortable, ‘it has a bad name hereabouts. People do say it’s haunted, and no one would be found anywhere near it after dark—leastwise no one but poor Polly, and she doesn’t count.’
We gathered around for the story, and it came slowly and quietly as from unwilling lips.
‘You may laugh at the tale and call it a bit of country superstition, but there’s more in it than that. About eight years ago a Londoner named Dawson took a room here for a few days. He was a charming and attractive man and seemed to have plenty of money. The days lengthened into weeks and still he stayed on. Then it was rumoured that the attraction was pretty Polly Gray, and there were folk who vowed they had seen the two of them meeting out on the hills. Polly, however, was promised to Jim Dale, the blacksmith’s mate—as fine a lad, and as straight and promising, as any girl could desire.
‘It seems that on Polly’s side the affair was only a passing fancy, and she soon felt ashamed of herself, went back to Jim, and gave the Londoner the go-by. Dawson mooned and moped about the place for a few days. Then he packed up, paid his bill, and drove off in his car. He took the river road and, before he had gone far, happened on Polly who was on her way to keep a tryst with Jim.
‘As Dawson caught up with her he stopped the car, and began to plead with her to go off with him. He was fair mad for her and went so far as to try to drag her into the motor. Of course she fought and struggled and her cries reached Jim who was waiting by the little bridge. He came out on the road, took in the situation at a glance, and ran to the girl’s assistance. But he was still some distance away when Dawson in a terrible rage leaped into the car and started the engine. As he neared Jim he put his head out of the window and screamed, “If I can’t have her you shan’t,” and accelerated hard. Before the poor lad had time to spring aside the car smashed into him and he was killed outright.
‘And then it seems that Dawson lost control of the motor, which was going at a terrific speed. He tried to jam on the brakes, but the car swerved up the bank, crashed over the bridge, and plunged into the river. Dawson was dead when he was dragged out of the water, and poor Polly has been feeble-minded ever since that night.
‘Now they do say that each evening, soon after eight o’clock, a phantom car speeds along that road. It starts from somewhere about the middle of the lane, tears along with a noisy rattle, and crashes into the river with a hideous splash. Several have heard it, although none but Mad Polly claims to have actually seen it. It is believed that if any other person sees the car it will mean death for him or her.’
‘Well, that’s a good story,’ said Richard Manners, ‘but I for one do not believe in fairy tales or ghosts.’
‘Nor I,’ smiled Mary. ‘Still we shall most likely cut across country if this weather continues and use neither road, so you can rest content, Mr. Harker.’
The landlord disappeared to see about the luncheon, and soon we went our separate ways—I to my fishing and they to their wandering and dreaming.
Towards the evening dark clouds began to creep across the sky, and almost without warning a terrific storm broke the peace of the countryside. I sheltered under a tree until I realised that the rain had set in for the night. Fortunately I had my mackintosh with me, and, buttoning it up to my throat, I started off for the inn. The rain was nothing short of a deluge. I have never seen such a storm. The sodden branches of the trees lashed my face as I hurried through the woods, and the blackness, which grew worse every moment, was broken only now and again by vivid flares of lightning.
As I reached the edge of the wood I heard voices and recognised them for those of my new acquaintances, the Manners. We were very pleased to see each other, for company was welcome in that dark storm. Together we plodded along, soaked to the skin but with some general idea of the right direction.
Presently we stumbled through a broken hedge into what appeared to be a fairly wide lane, and were congratulating ourselves on escaping from the boggy fields when Mary Manners, with a queer little laugh and a catch in her voice, said, ‘Isn’t this the road of the phantom car?’
It was too dark to see a yard before us, but we agreed that it must be. However, we knew that the inn was uphill whichever road we were on, and so we decided to push forward.
Suddenly Mary stopped and gripped our arms. ‘Hush!’ she whispered. ‘Listen!’
We came to a standstill and I felt beads of perspiration running down my spine. The sound we heard was the gentle purr-purr, then the groan, and finally the roar of a powerful car speeding down upon us.
I tried to move, but my feet seemed glued to the ground, and I could tell the others felt the same. We stared up the lane, but there was nothing—simply nothing. Mary was standing a little apart and suddenly she cried out, ‘I can see it. Oh, I’m so frightened.’
Nearer and nearer came the sound, and then, with a horrible, grinding roar, it passed us, and Mary screamed. Almost immediately there was a sickening crash, a splash, then silence. . . .
A flash of lightning lit up the scene and we saw a humped-up bundle by the road. With an agonised cry Manners rushed to the spot crying, ‘She’s fainted. Lend a hand, old chap.’ Together we lifted the girl, and began to carry her up the road. And as we went peal after peal of laughter came from the hedge. We could see nothing, but knew it must be Mad Polly keeping tryst with her dead lover.
Somehow we struggled on in the pitch darkness with that limp body in our arms. At last we turned out of the gloomy lane into the welcome beam of light streaming from the inn door. It was then I realised that my hands were damp with a sticky wetness, and I stopped and bent down to see if Mrs Manners had hurt herself in falling. Richard also bent over her and when he raised his face, it was ghastly. But it wasn’t half so ghastly as the thing we held in our arms. The once beautiful body was crushed and broken, the once lovely face was battered beyond recognition. Mary Manners had been killed by the ghost of a car.
The Lover of the Dead
I REMEMBER HOW I cursed and swore that night when the car broke down on the St Brissac road at a spot which I roughly calculated must have been at least ten miles from the nearest village. And what a night it was! The wind was blowing great guns and clouds of sleet swept in from the sea. The thunder of great waves seemed to make the tall cliffs tremble beneath their impact, and a thousand furies shrieked and howled over the bleak moors. There was I stranded in the most remote part of Cornwall with insufficient mechanical knowledge to even locate the trouble. In any case it would have been quite impossible to carry out a repair job in that hurricane.
I made up my mind to endeavour to make myself comfortable in the back seat of the car until morning. But, just as I was settling, a gull hurtled through the air and crashed into the side window. The glass was shattered to pieces and the driving sleet soaked the cushions within five minutes.
There was nothing for it but to seek shelter and, so far as I knew, there was no house for miles. My mackintosh afforded little protection, but I started out along that desolate road hoping against hope that some friendly light might gleam out through the night. Even a shepherd’s hut would have been welcome, for I was thoroughly weary and chilled to the bone.
My sense of direction isn’t good at the best of times, and by some means or other I wandered from the main road and found myself on a track which appeared to lead away to the moorlands. My flashlight showed that the lane was bordered by yew hedges, and I argued that this fact was an indication of some human habitation. I must have stumbled on for about a
mile when a building loomed up out of the darkness. It looked to be a fairly large house. No light shone in any window and the place seemed deserted.
Climbing the steps to the front door, I swung the heavy knocker. The sound reverberated hollowly, but no one answered my summons. Again I beat a frantic tattoo with the knocker. Some moments passed and then I thought I heard someone moving on the other side of the door. Once more I knocked and flashed my light over the panels. Then, without a sound, the door swung on its hinges and a queer-looking man stood in the gleam of the torch. I say he was queer-looking, but I find it difficult to describe him. His face was very white, his eyes were small and weak, and he was dressed in an ancient frock-coat green with age.
We stood there regarding each other, although he could have seen little of me for there was no light in the hall. Then, remembering my manners, I spoke.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said, ‘but my car has broken down and I shall be most grateful if you will grant me shelter for a few hours.’
‘Shelter,’ he repeated, and his voice was harsh and unfriendly. ‘Shelter! Is that all you want?’
‘What else should I require?’ I answered sharply. ‘Of course I could do with a meal—I should even like a hot drink, but I have no desire to strain the limits of your hospitality and shall be quite satisfied if you will allow me to sit in a chair until morning.’
‘Come inside,’ he invited. ‘And please forgive my seeming discourtesy, but it is such a long time since I entertained company.’
‘Don’t put yourself out at all,’ I begged, as I entered the house. ‘Believe me, I am very sorry indeed to be forced to inconvenience you in any way.’
His skinny hand gripped my arm and piloted me into a large room to the right of the entrance. He made no attempt to produce a light, and I shivered when I found the place to be in darkness with no fire burning in the grate.
‘Perhaps you have some candles in the house,’ I suggested. ‘We can hardly sit here in the dark.’
‘Why not?’ he replied. ‘I live in darkness all my days. My soul knows nothing but eternal darkness and I am doomed to be a lover of the dead.’
His voice held a note of hopeless despair which frightened me, and I knew that the fellow was undoubtedly mad. There was something eerie about the house and something uncanny about this strange man who lived in darkness.
‘Sit down,’ he went on. ‘Make yourself as comfortable as is possible under the circumstances and excuse the darkness. Shelter is all you asked, and shelter is all I can give.’
‘You live a long way from a village I suppose, sir?’ I inquired.
‘I live a long way from any human beings,’ he replied in his dull toneless voice. ‘But my wife and I are quite used to loneliness, and our requirements are few.’
‘Then your wife lives here with you?’
‘Where else should she live?’ he answered sharply. ‘Of course she is here. You must meet her. She is the loveliest woman in Cornwall—perhaps the most beautiful in the whole of England. I do not know. But don’t fall in love with her. A man did that many years ago, and I killed him. Do you hear that? I killed him.’
His voice rose to a shriek and I began to be really frightened. What if this lunatic attempted to kill me? He appeared to be old and frail, but I knew that insanity often gives a man superhuman strength.
Just then I heard a sound at the door as if someone was fumbling at the handle.
‘Ah!’ said my host quietly. ‘She is here now. You will not see her, because we live in darkness. It is better this way, for her loveliness will not tempt you.’
I heard him rise, cross to the door, and fling it open.
‘Come in, my dear,’ he cried. ‘We have a guest—the first for many years.’
There was the rustle of a dress and somebody else entered the room. I automatically jumped to my feet and immediately became conscious of a nauseating smell. It was the damp, musty odour of decay.
‘Sit down, sir,’ came the man’s voice out of the darkness. ‘Do not stand upon ceremony with us. We are very simple people.’
‘Very simple people,’ came a soft echo in a woman’s voice.
And still no attempt was made to light a lamp or a candle, and in that impenetrable darkness I felt my scalp tingle. I heard the man and the woman seat themselves on the opposite side of the room, and, in a sickening wave, the foul stench of corruption reached me again. I felt that I must scream out in terror but, with a mighty effort, I managed to keep my nerves under control.
Another sound at last broke the uncanny silence that had fallen upon us. It came from where I judged the window must be, and was nothing more than a long sigh. The effect of it upon my host was startling. He sprang to his feet crying, ‘So you are here again. Must you always break in? I tell you she is mine—all mine in death as she was in life. See. I kiss her lips, my arms embrace her. I am her lover always.’
I heard him return to his seat and then followed the sound of kisses in the gloom. Those caresses seemed more horrible, more terrifying than anything that had gone before. It was more than I could stand. Springing to my feet I shouted, ‘What hellish business is going on here?’ Pressing the switch of my torch I flashed the beam across the room. And then I gasped in horrified amazement. The man who had admitted me to the house was sitting on a settee. His eyes gleamed with mad mirth, and in his arms he held the decomposed body of a woman. Strands of dark hair hung about the green mouldering face, and fleshless hands sagged across the faded, stained dress.
‘Is she not lovely?’ the madman cried. ‘I told you her beauty would dazzle your eyes.’
For a moment or so I gazed at the ghastly scene, and then another sigh from the window made me turn my light in that direction. A man stood there in the shadows—if the thing I saw could be called a man. Really it was just an animated corpse with a white skull grinning in horrible mockery. Whimpering with terror I made for the door.
How I got outside that house of horror I do not know, but, by some means, I found myself running down the drive with the wind buffeting me and the sleet lashing my face. I seemed to have been running for hours when I saw a light gleaming through the night, and stumbling up to a cottage door, sank exhausted on the step. And then I remember nothing more until I awakened to find myself in a warm bed, the morning sun streaming through the casement and a kind-faced elderly man sitting near me.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed as I opened my eyes. ‘You have had a very nice sleep. How do you feel this morning?’
I admitted that I felt rather weak and that my limbs ached.
‘That’s not to be wondered at,’ he replied. ‘You were soaked to the skin when you arrived here last night. But we’ll soon have you right. Some nice hot soup will make a new man of you.’ He raised his voice and called, ‘Mary, bring some of that soup along.’
In less time than it takes to write it a motherly looking woman entered the room bearing a tray on which was a steaming bowl and some thin pieces of toast.
‘I’m right glad to see you looking so fresh after such a night in the storm,’ she said with a smile. ‘Now see if you can swallow this.’
I needed no second bidding and the warm, nourishing broth quickly made me feel more like myself. As soon as I had finished the meal I began to explain how it was that I had made such a sudden appearance out of the night. I told them of the abandoned car, of my discovery of the yew-hedged land, and of the house of horror in which I had sheltered. As I mentioned the house I noticed them exchange glances. When I had completed my recital the old man coughed gently and looked across at his wife again.
‘Better tell the lad the truth, John,’ she said, as if in answer to an unspoken question.
‘I suppose so,’ he replied. ‘It’s not a nice story, but he ought to know.’
‘Yes,’ I exclaimed. ‘Please tell me. Who was the madman I saw?’
‘Well, it’s queer, I know, but you seem to have met the ghost of Dr Goodridge. Ten years ago he came to live at Marlowe Grange.
He was a morose, unfriendly individual and was reputed to be a famous alienist. The whole countryside was surprised when, after a long absence from home, the doctor returned with a very attractive girl whom he announced was his wife. I saw her once or twice and it appeared to me that she lived in mortal terror of her husband. She must have found it dull down here, for she was very young—too young to be buried so far away from bright lights and gay company.
‘Some months after her arrival a young man came to stay at the Grange. He was Mrs Goodridge’s cousin, and the two used to go about a lot together. I have seen them bathing in Porton Cove, tramping over the moors, and picnicking on the beach. I suppose it was inevitable that two young people, so dependent upon each other, should fall in love. One day I saw the doctor hiding behind a bush and peering over a cliff. He did not notice me and I glanced over to see what was interesting him so much. On the rocks far below were his wife and her cousin, and to say the least of it, they were in a compromising attitude.
‘It seems that the doctor must have been half-mad himself. I suppose continuous contact with lunatics often affects the mentality of doctors and nurses. He planned to kill the unsuspecting pair, and did so quite easily by introducing poison into their food. Before he committed the crime he dismissed all the servants, giving out that he and his wife were going abroad.
‘The tragedy wasn’t discovered until over a month later. A cattle drover, passing the Grange one night, heard screams of mad laughter coming from the house. He reported the matter to the police at St Brissac and they forced an entrance. They found Dr Goodridge, absolutely insane, sitting on a settee in the drawing-room and fondling the decomposed body of his wife. In the window recess was the corpse of her lover—as grisly a sight as could be imagined.’
‘What happened to the doctor?’ I asked.
‘Well, he was too mad to answer any charge against him. He was confined in the criminal lunatic asylum at Port Minver and died there about eighteen months ago.’
THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS Page 15