The Mammoth Book of Haunted House Stories (Mammoth Books)

by Peter Haining

  Simon was a spirit who found me attractive. He tried in his way to make himself agreeable, and, with my secret motive in view – let me admit without a blush – I encouraged him. When I knew I had him thoroughly in hand, I attended no more séances at Endor’s Grove. My purpose was accomplished upon a certain night, when, feeling my shoulder violently shaken, I opened the eyes which had been closed in simulated slumber to meet the indignant glare of my husband. I glanced over his shoulder. Katie did not occupy her usual place. I turned my glance towards the arm-chair which stood at my side of the bed. It was not vacant. As I guessed, it was occupied by Simon. There he sat, the luminously transparent appearance of a weak-chinned, mild-looking young clergyman, dressed in the obsolete costume of eighty years previously. He gave me a bow in which respect mingled with some degree of complacency, and glanced at Vavasour.

  “I have been explaining matters to your husband,” he said, in that soundless spirit-voice with which Katie had first made me acquainted. “He understands that I am a clergyman and a reputable spirit, drawn into your life-orbit by the irresistible attraction which your mediumistic organisation exercises over my—”

  “There, you hear what he says!” I interrupted, nodding confirmatively at Vavasour. “Do let me go to sleep!”

  “What, with that intrusive beast sitting beside you?” shouted Vavasour indignantly. “Never!”

  “Think how many months I have put up with the presence of Katie!” said I. “After all, it’s only tit for tat!” And the ghost of a twinkle in Simon’s pale eye seemed to convey that he enjoyed the retort.

  Vavasour grunted sulkily, and resumed his recumbent position. But several times that night he awakened me with renewed objurgations of Simon, who with unflinching resolution maintained his post. Later on I started from sleep to find Katie’s usual seat occupied. She looked less pert and confident than usual, I thought, and rather humbled and fagged, as though she had had some trouble in squeezing her way into Vavasour’s sleeping thoughts. By day, after that night, she seldom appeared. My husband’s brain was too much occupied with Simon, who assiduously haunted me. And it was now my turn to twit Vavasour with unreasonable jealousy. Yet though I gloried in the success of my stratagem, the continual presence of that couple of spooks was an unremitting strain upon my nerves.

  But at length an extraordinary conviction dawned on my mind, and became stronger with each successive night. Between Simon and Katie an acquaintance had sprung up. I would awaken, or Vavasour would arouse, to find them gazing across the barrier of the bolster which divided them with their pale negatives of eyes, and chatting in still, spirit voices. Once I started from sleep to find myself enveloped in a kind of mosquito-tent of chilly, filmy vapour, and the conviction rushed upon me that He and She had leaned across our couch and exchanged an intangible embrace. Katie was the leading spirit in this, I feel convinced – there was no effrontery about Simon. Upon the next night I, waking, overheard a fragment of conversation between them which plainly revealed how matters stood.

  “We should never have met upon the same plane,” remarked Simon silently, “but for the mediumistic intervention of these people. Of the man” – he glanced slightingly towards Vavasour – “I cannot truthfully say I think much. The lady” – he bowed in my direction – “is everything that a lady should be!”

  “You are infatuated with her, it is plain!” snapped Katie, “and the sooner you are removed from her sphere of influence the better.”

  “Her power with me is weakening,” said Simon, “as Vavasour’s is with you. Our outlines are no longer so clear as they used to be, which proves that our astral individualities are less strongly impressed upon the brains of our earthly sponsors than they were. We are still materialised; but how long this will continue—” He sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Don’t let us wait for a formal dismissal, then,” said Katie boldly. “Let us throw up our respective situations.”

  “I remember enough of the Marriage Service to make our union, if not regular, at least respectable,” said Simon.

  “And I know quite a fashionable place on the Outside Edge of Things, where we could settle down,” said Katie, “and live practically on nothing.”

  I blinked at that moment. When I saw the room again clearly, the chairs beside our respective pillows were empty.

  Years have passed, and neither Vavasour nor myself has ever had a glimpse of the spirits whom we were the means of introducing to one another. We are quite content to know ourselves deprived for ever of their company. Yet sometimes, when I look at our three babies, I wonder whether that establishment of Simon’s and Katie’s on the Outside Edge of Things includes a nursery.

  The House of Dust

  Herbert de Hamel

  Prospectus

  Address:

  The Square, Brevolt, Belgium.

  Property:

  Nineteenth-century town house located in a quiet square adjacent to the mayor’s residence. Ornately and stylishly decorated, the property ensures privacy in the heart of the town.

  Viewing Date:

  Autumn, 1917.

  Agent:

  Herbert de Hamel (c. 1888–1939) was born in Reading, Berkshire and after several nondescript jobs, turned to writing and became a notable author and dramatist, with several of his plays produced successfully on the London stage. Among his most popular books were The Unnecessary Undoing of Mr. Purgle (1927), The Mills of Hell (1935) and Many Thanks – Ben Hassett (1936) which was reprinted several times. “The House of Dust”, first published in 1934, was attacked as being in bad taste because of its portrayal of a wartime sexual encounter between a German officer and a young female – a girl whose identity provides the chilling climax to the story.

  I

  Captain Kurt Von Unserbach was bored. He was bored from the duelling scar on the top of his close-cropped head to the corns on his tightly shod feet.

  The ends of his wide mouth drooped; his eyes, opened wide beneath his raised brows, stared unseeingly ahead; his back maintained its pose of stiffness, rather from habit than from any volition on the part of its owner. Never before had unkind Fortune cast his little strutting steps in a town where the women were so plain of face and so flat of figure. Even their very virtue repelled him.

  And yet a poet or an artist might have asked no happier fate than to be quartered in such surroundings. Brevolt had its history; not, perhaps, to be found in the dry pages of books, but written for all time in its own winding streets and mossy squares.

  The moonlight fell upon the mouldering spires, upon high-pitched tiles pierced by dormer windows, and upon glistening patchworks of leaded panes. It struggled down the quaint house-fronts with their mullioned windows till it reached the massive iron-studded doors, frowning beneath their gothic arches. It silvered once again the old stone shields: sable shadows on a ground argent, a device older by far than the proud hatchments in gules and azure and vert which had long since peeled from the crumbling surfaces.

  But Kurt von Unserbach cursed savagely at the cobble stones. His cavalry boots had hurt him even on the pavements of his loved Berlin. He cursed, too, at the impulse which had urged him to leave his overheated rooms and wander forth into the night air. It did not occur to him to turn back.

  He crossed the market square, noting, without a single glance of admiration, the spire-decked Town Hall where the burghers had feasted Van Arteveldt on his return from Crecy. Unheedingly he passed the city wall, looming black and imposing even in its ruined state, where the women of Brevolt had beaten back the fierce assaults of Alva. After marching some fifty paces down the country road he stopped, removed his busby, and gazed about him. A smile of genuine pleasure lit up his face. On either side of him an orderly row of poplars stretched away to some unseen vanishing point. Their perspective was faultless. Their tidiness and method reminded him of the Fatherland. So Brevolt had something beautiful in it after all. But those awful women! Ach! – those awful women!

  It was told o
f him, in the mess of the Blue Hussars, that, on being asked by his colonel if he had found Naples as beautiful as it was reputed, he had replied: “Beautiful! Beautiful! – and eyes of so dark a brown.”

  In his native country such favours had been showered on him as may come only to one who is grotesquely ugly and is clad in a dashing uniform of pale blue and silver. Moreover, so highly well born was he that his marriage was an affair of state. He could not wed, however much he might become entangled, without the consent of his emperor. Many a fair German had sobbed, with the sentimental abandon of her race, when he had gently but very firmly shattered all hope of a future that should redeem a too happy past with him. “This can go no further. I am, in honour, bound to tell you that my marriage to you will not be permitted.”

  And never did the honour of Kurt von Unserbach shine forth so brightly as when the charms of white arms and red lips had begun to cloy.

  He rubbed the middle finger of his right hand reflectively up and down one large outstanding ear and wrinkled his short nose. He wished that the army in front would make more progress towards Calais. He desired above all things to be quartered in England – as an exponent of martial law. English women had invariably laughed at him when he manufactured love for their benefit. They were treacherous, like all their race. They would trust themselves alone with him and then box his ears when he tried to kiss them. There was a Miss Smith who had called him Dan Lenobach.

  And he was tied by the leg in Brevolt! And the women of Brevolt –! Ach, himmel!

  “Pardon, monsieur.”

  Kurt von Unserbach jumped as though he had been touched with a spur. He had fancied himself to be entirely alone with his thoughts. By his side stood two women. One of them was of medium height and broad. The other was tall and graceful. Both were heavily veiled.

  “Pardon, monsieur,” repeated the taller of the two, in a tone so silvery and clear, and in a voice so well modulated, as to convince the cavalryman that he was addressed by no Flemish peasant. “My mother and I,” she continued, “have been out to see one who was wounded. We were delayed till after nightfall and we are now afraid to pass the soldiers at the gate. They were insulting to me once, and since then we have kept indoors.”

  She spoke in French, a language with which he was imperfectly acquainted; and yet, to his surprise, he had understood her every word. Her voice thrilled him and held him spellbound. He was convinced, entirely without reason, that such delicate tones and inflections could only come from the most beautiful of women.

  “They are Saxon Landsturm,” he replied with a contempt that could only have been equalled by a Saxon saying, “They are Prussians.”

  “But you are a Prussian officer,” continued the voice, “and we should be quite safe with you, if you would have the great kindness to escort us past the guard-room.”

  Captain von Unserbach hastily clapped his busby onto his head. Then, properly dressed, he clicked his heels together and bowed stiffly from his hips. “Once you are seen with me you can go anywhere in safety, at any time,” he remarked gravely.

  He wished that she would draw her veil aside. If the mere sound of her voice had the power to send his blood thumping through his heart, what effect might not the sight of her face have upon him? He pondered deeply as they walked slowly back towards the ancient gateway. “The intelligence which never deserts the Prussian officer.” This impartial remark, made by his favourite Prussian general, repeated itself again and again with silent persistence till they had reached the great block of masonry. Then came the inspiration: as brilliant and subtle as any that had ever been granted to him.

  “Pardon,” he remarked, through the elaborate machinery of another bow, “but if, upon my responsibility, you are enabled to pass the guard without examination, it is a mere formality that you should allow me to see your faces.”

  The elder woman at once uncovered her face. He barely glanced in her direction. He acknowledged her action by a curt nod and turned again to her companion.

  The baffling lace no longer hid her features, but lent its dark folds to outline the oval of her face. Her hair, black as the shadow of the gateway on the road, was drawn to each side over her low forehead and threw into vivid relief the ivory gleam of her skin. Her lips were parted slightly to show the white daintiness of her teeth. But it was her eyes that held the glance of Kurt von Unserbach – eyes that shone with the strangest of lights in the full rays of the moon – eyes that gripped him and fascinated him – that drew him from himself and sent him swirling and spinning up into the clouds – intoxicated and delirious.

  “Are you satisfied, Herr Kapitan?”

  His body bowed automatically, and then stood erect to receive him as he swooped back to earth.

  “You know my rank?” he inquired, grasping at any conversational straw in the raging waters of his confusion.

  “I have seen you so often from my window – and—”

  “And—?”

  “And have—” the dark eyes wavered for a second and then looked fearlessly and steadily into his own. “And have admired you so.”

  “Ach, so!” Her eyes still held his own – and he was reduced almost to incoherence. “So good and so beautiful!” he murmured.

  “No woman is good – who really loves,” she whispered.

  He averted his eyes from a sense of physical pain, caused by the intensity of her gaze, and the curious eerie effect of the moonlight.

  “Ach – yes! Yes! Yes!” he exclaimed vehemently; which was strange, since her previous remark accorded entirely with his own sentiments concerning women. “Whatever you did must be good and beautiful!”

  He glanced hastily towards her. Her eyes were still fixed upon him.

  “Let us be going in,” said the other woman. “It is becoming chilly.”

  A sudden cold wind swept hushing through the trees and swirled the dead leaves round his feet.

  He drew his cloak about him and turned towards the gateway. A light flashed in his face, followed by the crash of rifle-butts as the guard sprang to attention. He was proud that his companions should witness this tribute to his rank.

  “I will accompany you to your house,” he explained with elaborate subtlety. “Lest there might perhaps be some drunken soldiers in the street. If you are with me then you will be quite safe.”

  His spurs jingled joyously as he crossed the market place, and the cobbles no longer hurt his feet.

  “Is it not beautiful?” said his companion.

  He looked about him with interest, as though the quaint gables and turrets were stage scenery erected but a few moments before. “Very beautiful,” he agreed. “It would make a very beautiful background for a statue.” He regarded the square with increased favour. “There would be room for at least twenty statues.”

  “Perhaps one of them would be that of Captain Kurt von Unserbach?”

  There was no trace of levity in her tone – nor would it have occurred to him to seek for one. “I have done nothing as yet to deserve a statue,” he replied. “There is a statue of my father in our village. It is of the most costly marble and the best workmanship. But one can have only one father to honour.” He walked some twenty paces in silence and then added, with genuine sadness and regret: “I have no child – to raise a statue to me when I am dead.”

  Neither did he wonder that she should know his name. He was the only Prussian officer in that little Flemish town.

  For the rest of the journey he was too occupied to make any further remarks. Carefully and methodically he noted every architectural detail that might serve as a guide on future visits to his unknown destination. Occasionally the roughness of the cobbles swayed him towards his companion and for a brief moment their shoulders would touch and, once, the filmy lace veil caressed his cheek.

  Once, also, his little eyes glared and snapped arrogantly at a passing infantry officer whose gaze betokened too lively admiration.

  Some fifty paces farther, a gently detaining hand was laid upon his arm
– and he followed his escort through a narrow passage between two overhanging buildings. This alley led them into a small square which was well known to him. On the far side stood the préfecture of police, while on his right hand he could discern the familiar outline of the late mayor’s private residence.

  Opposite a broad double door, studded with large square-headed nails, the party halted. He noticed the details with the greatest care. The wood was dark chestnut or oak, polished with age. In the left half, as he stood facing it, was a small but heavily barred iron grid, painted black. From the solid stone lintel projected a curiously wrought lantern-bracket. The moulding of the jambs on either side was ornamented with a series of small stone shields and bugles arranged alternately.

  The younger woman opened a narrow door that was contained in the right-hand half of the large one and passed within.

  “We are most grateful to you for the trouble which you have taken on our behalf,” said her mother. “It is a pleasure to find a Prussian officer who can be courteous to two lonely and friendless women.”

  As she turned and went through the doorway a warm glow lit up the hall beyond. “Good night,” she said, her hand upon the latch, “and again our sincere thanks. We must not detain you any longer.”

  Kurt von Unserbach had no intention of allowing the matter to end there. He placed his foot in such a position that the door could not be closed. “I am not on duty to-night,” he explained firmly. “There is no reason why I should hurry back.”