The Mammoth Book of Haunted House Stories (Mammoth Books)

by Peter Haining

  “Price of a cup of tea, missus?”

  “You haven’t changed, Jimmy,” said Sophia with a little laugh.

  He didn’t reply but continued to hold out his hand.

  Sophia said roguishly, “Now how would I know the price of a cup of tea, eh?”

  “Fifty pee,” said Jimmy’s ghost. “A couple of quid for a cuppa and a butty.”

  “I think you’ve been following my career from the Other Side, Jimmy. You know I’ve done rather well for myself since you passed over. You’ve seen how I’ve been responsible for London’s spiritualist renaissance, haven’t you? But you have to realise that I am no more made of money than I have ever been. If you’re thinking Mother and Father left me anything you’re quite wrong.”

  “You some sort of loony tune?” He was looking at her fake fur, her high-heeled boots, the two large carriers and small leather case she carried. “What’s in the bag?”

  “That is my computer. An indispensable tool of my trade, Jimmy. You could call it a symbol of the electronic advances spiritualism has made in recent years. My bus is coming now so I’ll say goodbye.”

  She went upstairs. She thought he might follow her but when she was sitting down she looked behind her and he was nowhere to be seen. Encounters with her dead relatives were not unusual events in Sophia’s life. Only last week her aunt Lily had walked into her bedroom at midnight – she had always been a nocturnal type – and brought her a lot of messages from her mother, mostly warnings to Sophia to be on her guard in matters of men and money. Then, two evenings ago, an old woman came through the wall while Sophia was eating her supper. They manifested themselves so confidently, Sophia thought, because she never showed fear, she absolutely wasn’t frightened. The old woman didn’t stay long but flitted about the flat, peering at everything, and disappeared after telling Sophia that she was her maternal grandmother who had died in the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1919.

  So it was no great surprise to have seen Jimmy. In life he had always been feckless, unable to hold down a job, chronically short of money, with a talent for nothing but sponging off his relations. Few tears had been shed when his body was found floating in the Grand Union Canal, into which he had fallen after two or three too many in the Hero of Maida. Sophia devoutly hoped he wouldn’t embarrass her by manifesting himself at the seance she was about to hold in half an hour’s time at Mrs Paget-Brown’s.

  But, in fact, he was to make a more positive, almost concrete, appearance before that. As she descended the stairs from the top of the bus she saw him waiting for her at the stop. A less sensitive woman than Sophia might have assumed that he too had come on the bus and had sat downstairs, but she knew better. Why go on a bus when, in the manner of spirits, he could travel through space in no time and be wherever he wished in the twinkling of an eye?

  Sophia decided that the only wise course was to ignore him. She shook her head in his direction and set off at a brisk pace along Kendal Street. Outside the butcher’s she looked round and saw him following her. There was nothing to be done about it, she could only hope he wasn’t going to attach himself to her, even take up residence in her flat, for that might mean all the trouble and expense of an exorcism.

  Mrs Paget-Brown lived in Hyde Park Square. Before she rang the bell Sophia looked behind her once more. It was growing dark and she could no longer see Jimmy, but it might only be that he was already inside, in the drawing room, waiting for her. It couldn’t be helped. Mrs Paget-Brown opened the door promptly. She had everything prepared, the long rectangular table covered by a dark brown chenille cloth, Sophia’s chair, the semicircle of chairs behind it. Five guests were expected, of whom two had already arrived. They were in the dining room, having a cup of herb tea, for Sophia discouraged the consumption of alcohol before encounters with denizens of the Other Side.

  When Mrs Paget-Brown had gone back to her guests, Sophia took her laptop out of its case and set it on the table. She raised its lid so that the keyboard and screen could be seen. Then she took a large screen out of one her carriers and plugged its cable into one of the computer ports. Glancing over her shoulder to check that Mrs Paget-Brown was really gone and the door shut, she took a big keyboard out of the other carrier and plugged its cable into a second port.

  The doorbell rang and rang again five minutes afterwards. That probably meant everyone had arrived for two of the expected guests were a husband and wife, a Mr. and Mrs Jameson, hoping for an encounter with their dead daughter. Mrs Paget-Brown had told her a lot about this daughter, how she had been called Deirdre, had had a husband and two small children and had been a harpist. Sophia sometimes felt a warm glow of happiness when she reflected how often she was able to bring relief and hope to such people as the Jamesons by putting them in touch with those who had gone before.

  The computer was switched on, the small screen dark, the big screen alight but blank. She had settled herself into the big chair with the keyboard on her lap, and it and her hands covered by the overhang of the chenille cloth, when someone tapped on the door and asked if she was ready. In a fluting voice Sophia asked them to come in.

  She wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Jimmy had been among them. They wouldn’t have been able to see him, of course, but she would. Still, only six people entered the room, including Mrs Paget-Brown herself, the couple called Jameson who had the dead daughter, a very fat man who wheezed, and two elderly women, one very smartly dressed in a turquoise suit, the other dowdy with untidy hair.

  Sophia said a gracious “Good evening”, and then, “Please take a seat behind me where you can see the screen. In a moment we shall turn out the lights but before that I want to explain what will happen. What may happen. I can guarantee nothing if the spirits are unwilling.”

  They sat down. The asthmatic man breathed noisily. Turquoise suit took her hat off. Sophia could see their faces reflected in the screen, Mrs Jameson’s eyes bright with hope and yearning. The dowdy woman said could she ask a question and when Sophia said, certainly, my pleasure, asked if they would see anything or would it only be a matter of table raps and ectoplasm.

  Sophia couldn’t help laughing at the idea of ectoplasm. These people were so incredibly behind the times. But her laughter was kindly and she explained that there would be no table-rapping. The spirits, who were very advanced about such things, made their feelings and their messages known through the computer. Those seekers after truth who sat behind her would see answers appear on the screen.

  Of course everyone’s eyes went to the laptop’s small integral keyboard. And when the lights were lowered it was possible to imagine those keys moving. Sophia kept her hands under the cloth, her fingers on the big keyboard. She was ceaselessly thankful that she had taken that touch-typing course all those years ago when she was a girl.

  The asthmatic man’s wife was the first spirit to present herself. Her husband asked her if she was happy and YES appeared in green letters on the screen. He asked her if she missed him and WAITING FOR YOU TO FOLLOW DEAR appeared. Very much impressed, Mrs Paget-Brown summoned up her father. She said in an awed voice that she could see the keys very faintly moving on the integral keyboard as his spirit fingers touched them. Her father answered YES when she asked if he was with her mother and NO when she inquired if death had been a painful experience. Sophia leaned back a little and closed her eyes. Communing with the spirits took it out of her.

  But she supplied the dowdy woman with a fairly satisfactory dead fiance, her dead husband’s predecessor. In answer to a rather timid question he replied that he had always regretted not marrying her and his life had been a failure. When the dowdy woman reminded him that he had fathered five children, owned three houses, been a junior minister in Margaret Thatcher’s administration and later on chairman of a multinational company, Sophia told herself to be more careful.

  She was more successful with Deirdre Jameson. The Jamesons were transfixed with joy when Deirdre declared her happiness on the screen and intimated that she watched over he
r husband and children from afar. Where she now was she had ample opportunity to play the harp and did so for all the company of heaven. For a moment Sophia wondered if she had gone too far but Mr and Mrs Jameson accepted everything and when the lights went on again, thanked her, as they put it, from the bottom of their hearts.

  “Thank you, thank you, you have done a wonderful thing for us, you’ve transformed our lives.”

  As she packed everything up again, Sophia reflected on something she had occasionally thought of in the past. It wasn’t possible for her to go too far, it wasn’t possible for her to deceive. Although she might conceal from these seekers after truth the hidden keyboard and the busy activity of her hands, the truth must be that these spirits were present and waiting to communicate. She was a true medium and her hands were the means they entered in order to transmit their messages. The world wasn’t ready yet to have the keyboard and the moving fingers exposed, there was too much ignorance and prejudice, but one day . . .

  One day, Sophia believed, everyone would be attuned to seeing and speaking to the dead, as she had seen and spoken to Jimmy. One day, when the earth was filled with the glory of the supernatural.

  Carrying her bags and her laptop in its case, she tapped on the dining room door, was admitted and given a small glass of sherry. Discreetly, Mrs Paget-Brown slipped an envelope containing her cheque into her hand. Turquoise suit wanted to know if she would hold a seance for herself and some personal friends in Westbourne Terrace next week and the Jamesons asked for more revelations from Deirdre. Sophia graciously accepted both invitations.

  She was always the first to leave. It was wiser not to engage in too much conversation with the guests but to preserve the vague air of mystery that surrounded her. By now it was very dark and there were so many trees in this neighbourhood that the street lights failed to make much of a show. But there was enough light for her to see her brother. He was waiting for her on the corner of Hyde Park Street and Connaught Street.

  No one else was about, the Edgware Road wasn’t a very pleasant area for a woman to be alone in at night, and Sophia thought that, nuisance though Jimmy was, she wouldn’t be altogether averse to a man’s escort until her bus came. Then, of course, she realised how absurd this was. Jimmy’s presence at her side would be no deterrent to a mugger who would be unable to see him.

  “It’s time you went back to wherever you came from, Jimmy,” she said rather severely. “I must say I doubt if it’s the pleasantest of places but you should have thought of that while you were on earth.”

  “Loony tune,” said Jimmy, “I want the bag. I want all the bags. You give them to me and you’ll be OK.”

  “Give you my computer? What an idea. You couldn’t even carry it. The handle would pass right through your hand.”

  As if to demonstrate her error, Jimmy made a grab for the laptop in its case. Sophia snatched it back and held it above her head. She didn’t cry out. It was all too absurd. She didn’t see the knife either. In fact, she never saw it, only felt it like a blow that robbed her first of breath, then of life. She dropped the carriers. The secret keyboard made a little clatter when it struck the pavement.

  Jimmy, or Darren Palmer, picked up the bags and retrieved the case. Next morning he sold the lot to a man he knew in Leather Lane market and spent the money on crack cocaine.

  7

  HOUSES OF HORROR

  Terror Visions of the Stars

  In Letters of Fire

  Gaston Leroux

  Prospectus

  Address:

  La Chaux-de-Fonds, Jura, France.

  Property:

  Ancient mansion built on a shelf of rock previously the site of a castle. The property has two floors of large, high-ceilinged living- and bedrooms. It is surrounded by an extensive, wooded estate.

  Viewing Date:

  June, 1908.

  Agent:

  Gaston Leroux (1868–1927) had endured years of neglect as a writer until the worldwide success of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, The Phantom of the Opera, based on his original novel published in 1911. Born in Paris, Leroux initially earned his living as a reporter until he began producing “sensational” novels and scored a major success with The Mystery of the Yellow Chamber (1907), a classic “locked room” murder story. He capitalized on this with the tale of Erik, the scarred phantom of the Paris Opera House, which was filmed by Universal Pictures in 1925 starring Lon Chaney (1883–1930). Chaney, who became famous as “The Man of a Thousand Faces” for his remarkable ability to transform his features, appeared in a classic silent haunted house movie, The Forbidden Room (1914) before his role as the phantom. A keen reader, too, he possessed several of Gaston Leroux’s works including “In Letters of Fire,” which fascinated him with its story of a haunted room and an extraordinary cupboard that can apparently defy gravity.

  We had been out hunting wild boars all day, when we were overtaken by a violent storm, which compelled us to seek refuge in a deep cavern. It was Makoko, our guide, who took upon himself to give utterance to the thought which haunted the minds of the four of us who had sought safety from the fury of the tempest – Mathis, Allan, Makoko, and myself.

  “If the gentleman who lives in yonder house, which is said to be haunted by the devil, does not grant us the shelter of his roof tonight, we shall be compelled to sleep here.”

  Hardly had he uttered the words when a strange figure appeared at the entrance to the cavern.

  “It is he!” exclaimed Makoko, grasping my arm.

  I stared at the stranger.

  He was tall, lanky, of bony frame, and melancholy aspect. Unconscious of our presence, he stood leaning on his fowling-piece at the entrance of the cavern, showing a strong aquiline nose, a thin moustache, a stern mouth, and lack-lustre eyes. He was bareheaded; his hair was thin, while a few grey locks fell behind his ears. His age might have been anywhere between forty and sixty. He must have been strikingly handsome in the days when the light still shone in those time-dimmed eyes and those bitter lips could still break into a smile – but handsome in a haughty and forbidding style. A kind of terrible energy still lurked beneath his features, spectral as those of an apparition.

  By his side stood a hairless dog, low on its legs, which was evidently barking at us. Yet we could hear nothing! The dog, it was plain, was dumb, and barked at us in silence!

  Suddenly the man turned towards us, and said in a voice of the most exquisite politeness:

  “Gentlemen, it is out of the question for you to return to La Chaux-de-Fonds tonight. Permit me to offer you my hospitality.”

  Then, bending over his dog, he said:

  “Stop barking, Mystere.”

  The dog closed his jaws at once.

  Makoko emitted a grunt. During the five hours that we had been enjoying the chase, Mathis and Makoko had told Allan and myself, who were strangers to the district, some strange and startling stories about our host, whom they represented as having had, like Faust, dealings with the Evil Spirit.

  It was not without some trepidation, therefore, that we all moved out of the cavern.

  “Gentlemen,” said the stranger, with a melancholy smile, “it is many a long year since my door was thrown open to visitors. I am not fond of society, but I must tell you that one night, six months ago, a youth who had lost his way came and knocked at that door and begged for shelter till the morning. I refused him his request. Next day a body was found at the bottom of the big marl-pit – a body partly devoured by wolves.”

  “Why, that must have been Petit-Leduc!” cried Makoko. “So you were heartless enough to turn the poor lad away, at night and in the midst of winter! You are his murderer!”

  “Truly spoken,” replied the man, simply. “It was I who killed him. And now you see, gentlemen, that the incident has rendered me hospitable.”

  “Would you tell us why you drove him from your door?” growled Makoko.

  “Because,” he replied, quietly, “my house brings misfortune.”

 
; “I would rather risk meeting the powers of darkness than catching a cold in the head,” I retorted, laughing, and without further parley we set off, and in a short while had reached the door of the ancient mansion, which stood among the most desolate surroundings, on a shelf of barren rock, swept by all the winds of heaven.

  The huge door, antique, iron-barred, and studded with enormous nails, revolved slowly on its hinges, and opened noiselessly. A shrunken little old dame was there to welcome us.

  From the threshold we could see a large, high room, somewhat similar to the room formerly styled the retainers’ hall. It certainly constituted a part of what remained of the castle, on the ruins of which the mansion had been erected some centuries before. It was fully lighted by the fire on the enormous hearth, where a huge log was burning, and by two petrol lamps hanging by chains from the stone roof. There was no furniture except a heavy table of white wood, a large armchair upholstered in leather, a few stools, and a rude sideboard.

  We walked the length of the room. The old woman opened a door. We found ourselves at the foot of a worm-eaten staircase with sunken steps. This staircase, a spiral one, led to the second storey of the building, where the old woman showed us to our rooms.

  To this day I can recall our host – were I to live a hundred years I could not forget that figure such as it appeared to me, as if framed by the fireplace – when I went into the hall where Mother Appenzel had spread our supper.

  He was standing in front of my friends, on the stone hearth of that enormous fireplace. He was in evening dress – but such evening dress! It was in the pink of fashion, but a fashion long since vanished. The high collar of the coat, the broad lapels, the velvet waistcoat, the silken knee-breeches and stockings, the cravat, all seemed to possess the elegance of days gone by.