“Why do you show me this?” said the Kaiser. “Why do you show me these visions?”
“Come,” said the phantom.
“What is it?” said the Kaiser. “Where are you bringing me?”
“Come,” said the phantom.
They went from window to window, from land to land. You had seen, had you been out that night in Germany, and able to see visions, an imperious figure passing from place to place looking on many scenes. He looked on them, and families withered away, and happy scenes faded; and the phantom said to him: “Come.” He expostulated, but obeyed; and so they went from window to window of hundreds of farms in Prussia, till they came to the Prussian border and went on into Saxony; and always you would have heard, could you hear spirits speak, “It might have been,” “It might have been,” repeated from window to window.
They went down through Saxony heading for Austria.
And for long the Kaiser kept that callous imperious look. But at last he, even he, at last he nearly wept. And the phantom turned then and swept him back over Saxony, and into Prussia again and over the sentries’ heads, back to his comfortable bed where it was so hard to sleep. And though they had seen thousands of merry homes, homes that can never be merry now, shrines of perpetual mourning; though they had seen thousands of smiling German children, who will never be born now, but were only the visions of hopes blasted by him; for all the leagues over which he had been so ruthlessly hurried, dawn was yet barely breaking.
He had looked on the first few thousand homes of which he had robbed all time, and which he must see with his eyes before he may go hence. The first night of the Kaiser’s punishment was accomplished.
The Haunted Chateau
Dennis Wheatley
Location: Cheterau, Eastern France.
Time: Spring, 1940.
Eyewitness Description: “The Thing was in the pentacle! Inside it! There with them; at their elbows, instead of beyond the barrier which should have kept it out. Why had he felt no warning – no indication of evil. . .?”
Author: Dennis Wheatley (1897–1997) was one of the most popular novelists in Britain for almost half of the 20th century. Born into a family of wine merchants, he served as a gunner officer during World War One before being gassed and invalided out. By the thirties, he was the sole owner of the family business, but still determined to pursue his dream of becoming an author. His early best-sellers like The Forbidden Territory (1933) revealed his fascination with espionage and spying and when the Second World War started he offered his considerable prophetic skills to the war effort. Under the rank of a Wing Commander in the Joint Planning Staff of the War Cabinet he wrote a series of Top Secret papers anticipating German strategy, notably Resistance to Invasion, Village Defence and After the Battle. The documents proposed a host of ingenious ideas from setting the Channel on fire to building “tank traps” on the East Coast. Although Wheatley subsequently claimed more credit for his part in British plans than he was entitled to, there was undoubtedly a germ of possibility in everything he proposed. His involvement also inspired him to write one of the first “supernatural stories” of the war, which also harks back to the earlier conflict in its reference to the legend of a crucified soldier.
“France!” Brace Hemmingway raised his eyebrows and looked inquiringly across the table at his curious little host. “Would I like to go on a visit to the front? I’ll say I would; but as an American and a neutral, I’d never get a pass.”
Neils Orsen smiled and scrutinized one of his long slender hands. “I’m a neutral, too, but I’ve been invited to go over there to investigate a little matter. It won’t actually be the Maginot Line, but it’s in the Zone des Armées and I have permission to take an assistant, so I’m sure a pass for you could be arranged.”
“My dear Neils, I’d love to go,” the young international lawyer declared with rising excitement. “Tell me all about it.”
“Two days ago General Hayes, who is an old friend of mine, came to see me,” Orsen began, his cool voice only slightly tinged with a Swedish accent. “He has always been interested in psychical research and is now on leave from France. It seems that an old chateau which had been taken over by the British had to be abandoned as a billet because it is so badly haunted that even the officers refuse to stay in it.”
The big American lit a cigarette. “Then it must be the grandfather of all hauntings. What form does it take?”
“As usual, it does not affect everyone, but at least one or two out of each group of men that has been stationed there have felt its influence, and the manifestations always occur at night. The wretched victim is apparently always taken by surprise, lets out a piercing yell, and throws some sort of fit. Afterwards they state that they heard nothing, saw nothing, but were stabbed through the hands or feet and paralysed, rooted to the spot, transfixed by an agonizing pain which racked their whole bodies. The curious thing is that these attacks have taken place in nearly every room in the house. However, the worst cases have occurred in the one and only bathroom and it was there, about ten days ago, that one victim died – presumably as the result of a heart attack. It was that which finally decided the authorities to evacuate the chateau.”
“How long has the haunting been going on?”
The Swede blinked his large pale-blue eyes, so curiously like those of his Siamese cat, Past. “I’m not sure. You see, the château was empty and in a very dilapidated condition when the Army took over. I gather that it was untenanted for some considerable time before war started.”
“Was your friend able to find out the history of the place from the villagers?”
“Yes, and a most unpleasant story it is. But they seemed vague as to when the haunting began.”
“What was the story?”
“Before the French Revolution the château was owned by a really bad example of the French aristocracy of that time. Cruel, avaricious, and inordinately proud, the Vicomte de Cheterau treated his serfs worse than animals, beating, imprisoning, and torturing them at his pleasure. One day he devised the sadistic idea of adding yet another thong to his whip by placing a local tax on nails. As you know, it’s practically impossible to build anything without them, so the poorest peasants had to revert to the ancient, laborious practice of carving their own from the odd pieces of wood they could gather from the hedge-rows.”
“He must have been a swine.”
“Perhaps,” Neils agreed. “But no man, however cruel, deserved such a frightful death.”
“How did he die?”
Orsen stared at his reflection in the polished table. “One dark night, soon after the Revolution broke loose, his serfs crept into the chateau and pulled him out of bed. They dragged him to his business room and there they crucified him with their wooden nails. It took him three days to die; and they came each night to mock him in his agony with tantalizing jars of water and bowls of food.”
Bruce shuddered. “Horrible – did anyone ever live in the chateau again?”
“I believe so; but no tenant has ever stayed for long in recent years. Of course, the villagers won’t go near it. They are convinced that it’s haunted, as the story of the Vicomte de Cheterau has been handed down from father to son for generations.”
Hemmingway leaned forward. “Do you think these stabs the victims feel in their hands and feet are some sort of psychic repetition of the pains the Vicomte felt when the mob drove their wooden nails through his palms and insteps?”
“Quite possibly,” replied Orsen slowly. “There are many well-authenticated cases of monks and nuns who have developed stigmata from too intensive a contemplation of the agony suffered by Jesus Christ at His crucifixion.”
“It sounds a pretty tough proposition, then. When do we leave?”
“The day after tomorrow.” Neils gently stroked the back of his Siamese cat and his big pale eyes were glowing. “I may be able to show you a real Saati manifestation this time, Bruce; but we must take nothing for granted. You can leave all arrangements
to me.”
A watery sun was shining through the avenue of lime trees, throwing chequered patterns on the wet gravel below, as the two friends were driven towards the chateau by a cheerful young captain into whose charge they had been given at the local H.Q.
“General Hayes told me about you, Mr Orsen,” he was saying. “I find it difficult to believe in spooks myself, but there’s certainly something devilish going on in the old place, and we shall be jolly grateful if you can find it for us. Those cottages in the village are damned uncomfortable.”
Neils leaned forwards to peer through the window at the rearing pile of grey stone just ahead of them, and the captain added: “Gloomy sort of place, isn’t it?”
As Bruce stepped out of the car he thoroughly agreed. The silence was eerie, broken only by a monotonous sound of water dripping from the rain-sodden trees that surrounded the chateau and almost shut out the sky. A dank, musty smell greeted them as they entered; a rat scurried away into the dark shadows of the hall.
“Well, Neils, old man,” he said with a wry grin. “This place certainly seems to have the right atmosphere.”
The little Swede did not appear to hear him. He was standing quite still, his large head thrown back and his eyes closed as if he were listening. Their guide gave an embarrassed cough, Unlike Bruce, he was not accustomed to Orsen’s peculiarities, and he felt that ghost-hunting was at the best an unhealthy form of amusement.
“Shall we get a move on?” he asked abruptly. “I mean, if you want me to show you round; it’s quite a big place, and the light will be gone in less than an hour.”
Neils blinked, then fluttered one slender hand apologetically. “Forgive me; please lead the way.”
They mounted the twisting stairs and as they passed the windows the evening light threw their shadows, elongated and grotesque, against the damp-sodden walls; no one spoke and the emptiness seemed to close in on them like a fog. As they wandered from room to room Neils followed behind the other two men humming a quaint old-fashioned tune to himself.
After an hour they made their way back to the hall and as they walked out towards the car their guide turned towards Orsen. “Well, now you’ve seen it. Are you really going to spend the night here?”
The little man smiled. “Certainly we are.”
Mentally shrugging his shoulders the captain helped Bruce to carry the luggage upstairs, then ironically wished them good night. When the sound of the car was lost in the distance Bruce returned to the ballroom and found Neils standing by one of the long bow-windows.
“Can you hear the sh-sh-sh of panniered dresses, the brittle laughter of powdered ladies with their gallants, and the tapping of their heels as they dance a minuet to the tinkle of the harpsichord?” he said softly. His eyes stared blindly, and their pupils contracted. “Or do you hear the hoarse cries of those ragged, half-starved creatures as they stumble through these rooms smashing everything in sight, their mouths slobbering with frantic desire for revenge? Can you hear the shrieks, hardly human in their terror, of the wretched Vicomte as he is dragged to his death by those who were once his slaves?”
“No,” said Bruce uneasily, “but I’ll believe you that these walls would have a tale to tell if they could only talk.”
“My friend, they have no need when the seventh child of a seventh child is listening.”
Bruce shivered, as an icy chill seemed to rise up from the bare floor. “I’m hungry,” he said as brightly as he could. “What about unpacking and having a little light on the scene?”
Neils smiled. “Yes, we will eat and sleep here. We shall have to shade the candles though, as there aren’t any black-out precautions. I suppose the Army thought this room too big to bother about. I see they’ve done the bedrooms and everywhere else downstairs.”
“What made you choose the ballroom?”
“Because Hayes told that it is one of the few rooms in which no one has yet been attacked; so we shall be able to see if the Force possesses harmful powers against humans anywhere in the house, or whether it can only become an evil manifestation in certain spots.”
While Bruce set out an appetizing array of food from the hamper on the floor, Neils unpacked his cameras. The American had seen them keep him company on more than one thrilling adventure, but their process, Orsen’s invention, was a mystery to him. Neils explained them only by saying that their plates were abnormally sensitive. He said the same thing of his sound-recorder, an instrument like a miniature dictaphone.
Having finished their dinner with some excellent coffee, cooked on a primus stove, they went along to the big, old-fashioned bathroom to fix Orsen’s first camera and his sound machine. As they entered the room Bruce wrinkled his nose. “What a filthy smell! The drainage must be terrible.”
Neils agreed as he placed one instrument on the window-sill and one on the broad mahogany ledge that surrounded the old-fashioned bath. He sealed the windows with fine silken threads and did the same to the door. Then, with their footsteps echoing behind them, they made a tour of the silent chateau, leaving the Swede’s cameras in carefully selected places, till they came to the front hall, where Orsen left his last camera, and sealed the door leading to the back stairs with the remains of the reel of silk. Their job done they returned to the ballroom, and having made themselves as comfortable as possible with the rugs and cushions, settled down for the night.
Bruce could not sleep. They had lit a fire with some dry logs found in the kitchen and its dying flames sent a cavalcade of writhing shapes racing across the walls and ceiling.
Presently a moon shone through the uncurtained windows; propping himself on his elbow Bruce started at the unfamiliar lines it etched on Neils’s face as he lay on his back, breathing gently. Orsen’s enormous domed forehead shone like some beautiful Chinese ivory as the cold white light glanced across it, and his heavy blue-veined lids and sensitive mouth were curiously like those of a woman. He was sound asleep, yet Bruce knew that if there were the slightest sound or if an evil presence approached, he would be alert and fully in command of all his faculties in a fraction of a second.
Bruce lay back reassured. He could hear the muffled scuffling of rats behind the wainscoting. At length he dozed off.
Suddenly a shrill scream rent the silence, tearing it apart with devastating hands of terror. Bruce sprang to his feet and rushed to the window. The driveway was brilliantly illuminated by the glare of the moon, but he could see nothing. Orsen sat up slowly. “It’s all right,” he murmured; “only an owl.”
Nodding dumbly, Bruce returned to his couch, his heart thudding against his ribs.
Morning came at last, and after breakfast Orsen went off to examine his cameras. He found their plates negative and his seals all undisturbed, whilst the sound-machine recorded only the scrambling noise of rats. Re-setting his apparatus, he returned to the ballroom. Bruce was staring gloomily out of the window at the steady downpour of rain now falling from a leaden sky. He wheeled round as Neils came in. “Well?”
“Nothing. I think we’ll go down to the village now. We might get a hot bath and you can have a drink. You look pretty done in.”
“Yes,” Bruce agreed laconically.
After lunch in the officers’ mess, Neils arranged with his friend to bring their provisions up to the chateau before dark and left him in the genial company of the officers. As the rain had ceased he had decided to go for a walk and wandered off, a queer little figure in the misty yellow light of the afternoon.
The woods that almost covered the estate were full of a quiet beauty as the dusty sunlight filtered through their branches on to the sharply scented earth below and their calm, ageless indifference to the travails of men filled Orsen with a delightful sense of being in another world.
The evening passed slowly. Bruce played patience, whilst Orsen paced up and down like a small caged animal. He would never have admitted it, but his nerves were badly on edge, for, although they had lit a fire, the cold was intense, a thing that always made him feel
ill. After dinner, having made a final inspection of his cameras, he boiled some water on the primus for a hot-water-bottle, and settled down in his improvised bed. Bruce followed suit.
The black moonless night dragged by on crippled feet, its silence disturbed only by the rats and the faint boom of gun-fire in the distance. Morning found the two men pale and haggard. They fried themselves eggs and bacon, then went along to the bathroom, where the stench was now so appalling that they had to hold their noses.
Once again the camera plates proved negative and the seals were untouched; but on the record of the sound-machine there was a new noise. It came at intervals above the scuffling of the rats and was like that of someone beating with his fingernails irregularly against a pane of glass.
“What do you think it is?” Bruce asked excitedly.
Neils went over to the window and peered out. “It’s possible that it was caused by this branch of creeper,” he said, opening the window and breaking off the branch. “If it was, the noise won’t recur tonight.”
The day passed uneventfully and both men were curiously relieved when darkness fell once more.
Close on midnight Orsen slid out of bed noiselessly and crept along to the bathroom. On reaching it he stood motionless for a second. In the queer half-green light of his torch he resembled a ghost himself.
Not a sound disturbed the silence; even the rats seemed to have disappeared. Putting his ear to the keyhole he listened, but could hear nothing. He hesitated, then, grasping the door-handle, he twisted it sharply and with a vicious kick sent the door flying open, at the same instant flattening himself back against the wall.
Breathlessly, he waited, the unearthly quiet singing in his head. Still nothing happened. Making the sign of the Cross he muttered four words of power and, easing himself forward, peered into the bathroom. Only the horrible stench of decaying life and the heavy tomb-like atmosphere greeted him. He flashed his torch across the ceiling and sent its beams piercing into every corner, but his cameras were all unviolated. With a sigh of disappointment he closed the door softly behind him and retraced his steps.
The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories Page 29