The old house, we were informed, had years ago been surrounded by several acres of land – later sold off for farming and a small housing development long before we arrived – but during the early years of the nineteenth century, at the time of the Napoleonic wars with France, something terrible and tragic had occurred there. A group of French soldiers who had been taken prisoner during the conflict had been billeted at Peyton House, where they were kept in the outbuildings and set to earn their keep by working on the land. This was a common practice during this particular war, and a number of property owners in East Anglia benefited from these gangs of enforced labourers – although there is no evidence that they treated the Frenchmen with anything other than kindness, as long as they worked conscientiously and did not cause any trouble.
Then, one June day, a fire broke out at Peyton House. Fortunately, the blaze was put out before it could do any serious damage to the building, but one of the PoWs was trapped by the flames and perished in a smoke-filled room. There is no record as to whether the man was buried locally or his body returned to France. Each June thereafter, we were told, a distinct aroma of smoke was evident in the house, growing in intensity until the same specific day when it stopped as dramatically as it had begun.
That day was 6 June – the very day on which Philippa had seen the figure on the landing . . .
This account of the Peyton House ghost, which I entitled “The Smoke Ghost”, was originally written at the invitation of Stephen Jones for his anthology of true paranormal encounters, Dancing With The Dark, published in 1997. The story attracted quite a lot of interest from fellow writers in the supernatural genre, as well as neighbours and friends in Suffolk. All of them, it seemed, had experiences either at first hand, or from people whose integrity they had no reason to doubt, relating to haunted houses. Clearly, interest in house-bound phantoms was as intense now as it has ever been.
I knew at the same time, too, that the theme of haunted houses had been a popular one with authors for the past century and more. Yet amidst the veritable library of collections of ghost stories, very few were solely devoted to this topic. A few day’s research confirmed the fact that there was indeed a wealth of material available – and the result is the book now in your hands. Making a selection of tales from so many has not been easy, I must admit, but I do believe that here you will find a representative collection covering all the important elements of haunted houses.
An ideal way of setting the mood seemed to me to be with a group of stories – like that of my wife – based on actual hauntings. The first of these, “The Haunted and the Haunters” by Edward Bulwer-Lytton may well be the most famous story of its kind and certainly its influence will be evident in all the subsequent tales in the section right up to William F. Nolan’s contemporary thriller, “Dark Winner.” Nolan’s dangerous little protagonist leads neatly into the second section featuring ghosts with a vengeance where again the spirit in Charlotte Riddell’s house in Vauxhall Walk is every bit as ancient and malevolent as the evil which haunts the customers in Ian Watson’s tale of the Roebuck Public House enjoying a “Happy Hour.”
The third section deals with a variety of restless phantoms caught half-way between their world and ours, their stories chillingly recounted by at least two writers, Richard Hughes and Fay Weldon, not generally associated with the supernatural. Whether the spirit world is as obsessed with sex as our own provides the theme for the Phantom Lovers section with Richard Dehan’s century-old story indicating that the undead have been interfering with the affairs (if you’ll excuse the pun) of men and women for a great many years – and are still doing so according to those excellent modern horror masters, Robert Bloch and Ramsey Campbell.
People begin their love of ghost stories in childhood and it should come as no surprise when considering the number of children who die tragically young that they have featured in a number of haunted house stories. M. R. James, Nigel Kneale and Penelope Lively demonstrate how little darlings can also become little terrors after death. The uncertainty of what lies beyond death has, of course, promoted a continuing interest in the “Other Side” and the penultimate group of stories take the reader through the shadow lands under the guidance of several knowledgeable writers including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Joan Aiken and James Herbert.
The final section, “Houses of Horror” has been added to this new edition of the book at the invitation of my publishers. During the almost half a century that I have been editing anthologies of supernatural stories, I have worked on three collections with famous horror film stars – namely Vincent Price, Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing – and researched and written about four other top names, Lon Chaney, Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff and Robert Englund. All of them proved to be lovers of ghost stories as well as being familiar with supernatural fiction. Amongst these actors’ favourite stories, each had one about a haunted house and it is their choices that bring the book to a chilling finale.
For myself, I have continued to live contentedly in my own haunted home, ghost notwithstanding, for over a quarter of a century. I wish you the same enjoyment – and safety – in the ill-omened and often dangerous properties that now await your visit.
Peter Haining
February, 2005
1
HAUNTED PLACES
Stories of Fact and Fiction
No.50, Berkeley Square, London
The Haunted and the Haunters
Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Prospectus
Address:
50, Berkeley Square, London Wl.
Property:
Circa Eighteenth-century, four-storey town house. Plain fronted with tall windows and a narrow balcony on the second floor. The residence of a former prime minister, George Canning (1770–1827), the house has been much renovated.
Viewing Date:
August, 1859.
Agent:
Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803–1873) was born in London and despite his noble birth was forced to earn his living as a writer, until he inherited the title of Lord Lytton in 1866. In the interim, he had become popular with readers for his historical novels – notably The Last Days of Pompeii (1834) – and a number of stories of the occult and supernatural. Highly regarded among these are his novel A Strange Story (1861) and short stories, “Glenallan” and “The Haunted and the Haunters”, described by H.P. Lovecraft as “one of the best short haunted house tales ever written”. It is based on reports Lytton had heard about a building in the heart of London’s Mayfair and effectively launched the genre of Haunted House stories.
A friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me one day, as if between jest and earnest, “Fancy! since we last met, I have discovered a haunted house in the midst of London.”
“Really haunted? – and by what? ghosts?”
“Well, I can’t answer that question: all I know is this – six weeks ago my wife and I were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, ‘Apartments Furnished’. The situation suited us; we entered the house – liked the rooms – engaged them by the week – and left them the third day. No power on earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; and I don’t wonder at it.”
“What did you see?”
“Excuse me – I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitious dreamer – nor, on the other hand, could I ask you to accept on my affirmation what you would hold to be incredible without the evidence of your own senses. Let me only say this, it was not so much what we saw or heard (in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our own excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us away, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever we passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither saw nor heard anything. And the strangest marvel of all was, that for once in my life I agreed with my wife, silly woman though she be – and allowed, after the third night, that it was impossible to stay a fourth i
n that house. Accordingly, on the fourth morning I summoned the woman who kept the house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quite suit us, and we would not stay out our week. She said, dryly, “I know why: you have stayed longer than any other lodger. Few ever stayed a second night; none before you a third. But I take it they have been very kind to you.”
“ ‘They – who?’ I asked, affecting to smile.
“ ‘Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. I don’t mind them; I remember them many years ago, when I lived in this house, not as a servant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don’t care – I’m old, and must die soon anyhow; and then I shall be with them, and in this house still.’ The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness, that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her further. I paid for my week, and too happy were my wife and I to get off so cheaply.”
“You excite my curiosity,” said I; “nothing I should like better than to sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which you left so ignominiously.”
My friend gave me the address; and when we parted, I walked straight towards the house thus indicated.
It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street (in a dull but respectable thoroughfare). I found the house shut up – no bill at the window, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy, collecting pewter pots at the neighboring areas, said to me, “Do you want any one at that house, sir?”
“Yes, I heard it was to be let.”
“Let! – why, the woman who kept it is dead – has been dead these three weeks, and no one can be found to stay there, though Mr. J— offered ever so much. He offered Mother, who chars for him, £1 a week just to open and shut the windows, and she would not.”
“Would not! – and why?”
“The house is haunted: and the old woman who kept it was found dead in her bed, with her eyes wide open. They say the devil strangled her.”
“Pooh! – you speak of Mr. J—. Is he the owner of the house?”
“Yes.”
“Where does he live?”
“In G— Street, No.—.”
“What is he – in any business?”
“No, sir – nothing particular; a single gentleman.”
I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and proceeded to Mr. J—, in G— Street, which was close by the street that boasted the haunted house. I was lucky enough to find Mr. J— at home, an elderly man, with intelligent countenance and prepossessing manners.
I communicated my name and my business frankly. I said I heard the house was considered to be haunted – that I had a strong desire to examine a house with so equivocal a reputation – that I should be greatly obliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing to pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask.
“Sir,” said Mr. J—, with great courtesy, “the house is at your service, for as short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the question – the obligation will be on my side should you be able to discover the cause of the strange phenomena which at present deprive it of all value. I cannot let it, for I cannot even get a servant to keep it in order or answer the door. Unluckily the house is haunted, if I may use that expression, not only by night, but by day; though at night the disturbances are of a more unpleasant and sometimes of a more alarming character. The poor old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I took out of a workhouse, for in her childhood she had been known to some of my family, and had once been in such good circumstances that she had rented that house of my uncle. She was a woman of superior education and strong mind, and was the only person I could ever induce to remain in the house. Indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner’s inquest, which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, I have so despaired of finding any person to take charge of the house, much more a tenant, that I would willingly let it rent-free for a year to any one who would pay its rates and taxes.”
“How long is it since the house acquired this sinister character?”
“That I can scarcely tell you, but very many years since. The old woman I spoke of said it was haunted when she rented it between thirty and forty years ago. The fact is, that my life has been spent in the East Indies, and in the civil service of the Company. I returned to England last year, on inheriting the fortune of an uncle, among whose possessions was the house in question. I found it shut up and uninhabited. I was told that it was haunted, that no-one would inhabit it. I smiled at what seemed to me so idle a story. I spent some money in repairing it – added to its old-fashioned furniture a few modern articles – advertised it, and obtained a lodger for a year. He was a colonel retired on half-pay. He came in with his family, a son and a daughter, and four or five servants: they all left the house the next day; and, although each of them declared that he had seen something different from that which had scared the others, a something still was equally terrible to all. I really could not in conscience sue, nor even blame, the colonel for breach of agreement. Then I put in the old woman I have spoken of, and she was empowered to let the house in apartments. I never had one lodger who stayed more than three days. I do not tell you their stories – to no two lodgers have there been exactly the same phenomena repeated. It is better that you should judge for yourself, than enter the house with an imagination influenced by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear something or other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please.”
“Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?”
“Yes. I passed not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in that house. My curiosity is not satisfied but it is quenched. I have no desire to renew the experiment. You cannot complain, you see, sir, that I am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest be exceedingly eager and your nerves unusually strong, I honestly add, that I advise you not to pass a night in that house.”
“My interest is exceedingly keen,” said I, “and though only a coward will boast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have the right to rely on them – even in a haunted house.”
Mr. J— said very little more; he took the keys of the house out of his bureau, gave them to me – and, thanking him cordially for his frankness, and his urbane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize.
Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home, I summoned my confidential servant – a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as free from superstitious prejudices as any one I could think of.
“F—,” said I, “you remember in Germany how disappointed we were at not finding a ghost in that old castle, which was said to be haunted by a headless apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep there to-night. From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow itself to be seen or to be heard – something, perhaps, excessively horrible. Do you think if I take you with me, I may rely on your presence of mind, whatever may happen?”
“Oh, sir! pray trust me,” answered F—, grinning with delight.
“Very well; then here are the keys of the house – this is the address. Go now – select for me any bedroom you please; and since the house has not been inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire – air the bed well – see, of course, that there are candles as well as fuel. Take with you my revolver and my dagger – so much for my weapons – arm yourself equally well; and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall be but a sorry couple of Englishmen.”
I was engaged for the rest of the day on business so urgent that I had not leisure to think much on the nocturnal adventure to which I had plighted my honor. I dined alone, and very late, and while dining, read, as is my habit. I selected one of the volumes of Macaulay’s Essays. I thought to myself that I would take the book with me; there was so much of the healthfulness in the sty
le, and practical life in the subjects, that it would serve as an antidote against the influence of superstitious fancy.
Accordingly, about half-past nine, I put the book into my pocket, and strolled leisurely towards the haunted house. I took with me a favorite dog – an exceedingly sharp, bold and vigilant bull-terrier – a dog fond of prowling about strange ghostly corners and passages at night in search of rats – a dog of dogs for a ghost.
It was a summer night, but chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and overcast. Still there was a moon – faint and sickly, but still a moon – and if the clouds permitted, after midnight it would be brighter.
I reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful smile.
“All right, sir, and very comfortable.”
“Oh!” said I, rather disappointed; “have you not seen nor heard anything remarkable?”
“Well, sir, I must own I have heard something queer.”
“What – what?”
“The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once or twice small noises like whispers close at my ear – nothing more.”
“You are not at all frightened?”
“I! not a bit of it, sir,” and the man’s bold look reassured me on one point – viz., that happen what might, he would not desert me.
We were in the hall, the street-door closed, and my attention was now drawn to my dog. He had at first run in eagerly enough, but had sneaked back to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. After patting him on the head, and encouraging him gently, the dog seemed to reconcile himself to the situation, and followed me and F— through the house, but keeping close at my heels instead of hurrying inquisitively in advance, which was his usual and normal habit in all strange places. We first visited the subterranean apartments, the kitchen and other offices, and especially the cellars, in which last there were two or three bottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, and evidently, by their appearance, undisturbed for many years. It was clear that the ghosts were not wine-bibbers. For the rest we discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomy little backyard with very high walls. The stones of this yard were very damp; and what with the damp, and what with the dust and smoke-grime on the pavement, our feet left a slight impression where we passed.
The Mammoth Book of Haunted House Stories (Mammoth Books) Page 2