Crimson Snow

by Martin Edwards

  They crowded in, and most of them possessed either matches or automatic lighters. These were struck into flame, and the aggregation made a fair light.

  There was no longer a babble of talk. The very atmosphere of the room struck a chill into the explorers—and it was not only the cold. The solid, heavy furniture, with its layer of age-old dust, the great empty fireplace, and the blackened oak beams—all this made a picture, in the feeble, flickering light that struck an exceedingly eerie note. The shrieking of the wind outside did not help.

  ‘I’m beginning to think, you fellows, that we shouldn’t have come,’ said Gerry Charton softly. ‘Hell! I’ve got the creeps already. I shall dream about this beastly room.’

  His brother laughed in a superior way.

  ‘I never had any suspicion, Gerry, that you were neurotic,’ he chaffed. ‘I can assure you that the room won’t have the slightest effect upon my sleep. Haunted houses or rooms are only haunted by—atmosphere. The mind does the rest. Healthy minds remain unaffected. Neurotic minds react in a great variety of ways. What they see in a haunted room is nothing but the figment of their own imagination.’

  ‘That’s rather an interesting argument,’ admitted Gerry. ‘As it happens, none of us know what this room is haunted by, because the general won’t tell us—admitting that it is haunted at all. So if one of us stayed the night in the room and—well, saw things—those things would be nothing but the phantoms of his own mind.’

  ‘Naturally,’ agreed Ronnie, with a shrug. ‘In just the same way, people hear stories of a certain haunting, they keep watch, and they see the supposed ghost. Actually, they only see what they have been led to expect, and it is purely imaginary.’ He walked farther into the room and looked about him contemptuously. ‘Eeriness is merely a condition of mind,’ he said. ‘This room doesn’t affect me in the least. Why should it? Its history is no concern of mine, and therefore it is nothing but a drab, cold, dusty-looking room. With a fire glowing in the grate, and lights everywhere, it would be just the same as any other room.’

  ‘But we do not all possess such strong nerves,’ murmured Dr. Ware dryly. ‘In my experience, it is only the extremely bold and the extremely foolish who take pleasure in sleeping in haunted chambers. The first-named are proof against any shocks, and the second are far too brainless to possess any imagination. In just the same way, regrettable as it is to admit it, it is the clod who sometimes earns the V.C. in battle—although he doesn’t always get it. He has no imagination to picture the dangers into which he is hurling himself.’

  ‘Well, let’s clear out of the place before our lighters burn out,’ said Gerry Charton, with a laugh. ‘Nobody’s going to sleep the night in here—not even the bold, fearless Ronnie. He obviously comes into Dr. Ware’s first category, because everybody knows he’s not a fool.’

  Ronnie flushed with annoyance.

  ‘There’s always something damned unpleasant in your humour, Gerry,’ he said. ‘If you’re suggesting that I wouldn’t spend the night in this room… Blast you, I will spend the night in the room!’

  ‘Come, come, Charton!’ said General Lister sharply. ‘There’s no need for you to be piqued. Your brother didn’t mean any reflection on your courage…’

  ‘None whatever,’ put in Gerry. ‘He just makes me sick, that’s all. He’s got no more sense of humour than a carrot. Even when we were boys at school together…’ He suddenly laughed. ‘I’m beginning to think Ronnie was right. He’s the only sober one amongst us.’

  There was a stubborn, sulky look on Ronnie’s face, which had now returned to its normal pallor.

  ‘I meant what I said!’ he muttered haughtily.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Ronnie,’ said Gerry, with quick concern. ‘Hang it, man, I was only kidding. Can’t you ever take a joke? Only a fool or a braggart would keep up that nonsense about spending a night…’

  ‘All right—I’m a fool,’ flared Ronnie. ‘I’m a braggart! If I don’t spend the night in the room now, everybody will think I’m yellow.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ laughed Dr. Ware. ‘You’re taking the whole thing far too seriously, my boy. What do you think, Mr. Cromwell?’ he added, turning to Ironsides, who happened to be standing beside him.

  ‘I think I’m going to bed,’ replied Ironsides, yawning.

  He apparently thought that the whole discussion would fizzle out, once the men had returned to the library—and the hot toddy. But Ronnie Charton was one of those pig-headed, insufferable young men who possess an extraordinarily inflated opinion of their own importance. Anybody else might have responded to the chaff with a laugh, and the whole thing would have been over. But not the magnificent Ronnie.

  The inevitable outcome was that some of the other men decided to take him at his word, and there was talk of getting candles and lamps, and lighting a fire in the Death Room.

  ‘It’ll do the young swine a heap of good,’ murmured Drydon into Johnny’s ear. ‘Who the hell does he think he is, anyway? What he needs is a lesson. I don’t mind having a side bet that he comes squealing out of the room within half an hour.’

  Johnny grinned.

  ‘Isn’t it more usual for the house-party to find the occupant of the haunted room stretched out cold and stark on the floor?’ he chuckled.

  General Lister, at first angry, then concerned, was helpless. If he forbade Ronnie to spend the night in the Death Room, he would undoubtedly make an enemy of the young ass—and Johnny’s father was a friendly soul, and the host to boot. The other men took the whole thing into their own hands, and in a very short time a great fire was blazing in the Death Room, and half a dozen candles were burning on the mantelpiece, to say nothing of an old-fashioned standard oil lamp, with a hideous rose shade, in one of the darkest corners.

  ‘Listen, Ronnie!’ said Gerry Charton earnestly. ‘Nobody wants you to do this potty thing. If I annoyed you, I’m most frightfully sorry. Why not call it all off?’

  ‘What’s the matter—getting scared?’ retorted Ronnie, with a sneer. ‘I’m going to spend the night in the Death Room—not you. What’s more, I’m going to sleep. You surely don’t think I’m nervous, do you?’

  Gerry looked at him helplessly.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘I give up.’

  The others were not so considerate. With their tongues in their cheeks, they solemnly advised Ronnie to keep a sharp look-out for the ghost; they suggested that he should leave the door slightly ajar, so that he could make a quick getaway at the first rattle of bones. A final drink, and a large one, was pressed on Ronnie, and it was noticed by one and all that he drank it at a gulp.

  Then, after he had shut himself in the Death Room, a big shout of laughter went up when the heavy key was heard turning in the lock. If one of the humorists had not suggested that Ronnie should leave the door ajar, he would probably have left it unlocked, at the very least.

  ‘Silly young chump!’ growled Johnny, as he and Ironsides at last went up to bed. ‘Between you and me, old bean, the pater is worried more than somewhat. I can’t say I think a lot of the binge myself.’

  ‘Um!’ grunted Mr. Cromwell vaguely.

  ‘Who the devil started the talk about the Death Room, anyhow?’

  ‘I don’t know who started it, but you helped the talk along very nicely,’ said Ironsides, with a sniff. ‘This is my room, isn’t it? Where’s yours? Next door? Well, I suppose the walls are pretty thick in an old house like this, so I ought to be able to get some sleep.’

  Johnny was not listening.

  ‘Just between ourselves, Old Iron, it’s a priceless opportunity for some evilly disposed person to bump that young blighter, and no questions asked,’ he said. ‘The castle is congested with people who would like to see Ronnie Charton lying stark and stiff, with his face frozen into an expression of livid fear.’

  ‘Go to bed!’ said Cromwell, yawning.

 
And down in the Death Room, Ronnie Charton was sitting in a big chair in front of the blazing fire, smoking with an air of calm nonchalance. For Ronnie belonged to that large class of people who continually fool themselves, but fool nobody else. In his heart, he was not a bit keen on this vigil, but he would not have admitted it to himself for a sum of ten thousand pounds, cash on the spot.

  The brightly blazing fire, and the lights, did no more than half dispel the eerie gloom of the long, draughty chamber, with its deeply-recessed windows and its shadowy corners. The flickering shadows on the raftered ceiling took all sorts of queer shapes, and Ronnie found himself getting jumpy.

  He was strong enough, he told himself, to make his mind a blank. The best thing in a situation like this was to think of nothing whatever. It annoyed him to find that he kept conjecturing on the possible appearance of the supposed ghost. It was perfectly senile of General Lister to withhold the story of the Death Room—for it was quite palpable to Ronnie that his lordship did know something. The unfortunate young man was left entirely to his own imagination.

  For some little time he heard the vague talking of his late companions out in the great hall, and an occasional burst of laughter. Whereupon he gritted his teeth and chewed up a couple of perfectly good cigarettes. Presently, the voices died away, and the only sounds which came to his ears were caused by the crackling of the fire, the howling of the wind outside, and an occasional mysterious creak from odd corners of the room. These creaks rather got on his nerves—although his common sense should have told him that a room, left for years without a fire, would do quite a lot of creaking with an unaccustomed heat spreading throughout its length and breadth.

  After a while he got to his feet and walked to one of the windows. Clearing the steamy glass with his hand, he peered outside. But he could see little, for the snow was piled high on the ledge, and flakes were whirling in millions. It was a wild and fearful night, even for the Peak District of Derbyshire.

  Ronnie gave the room a cool, careless glance as he walked back to the fireplace. As he had known from the first, there was nothing in spending a night in a haunted room. He was even feeling sleepy—a sure proof that his nerves were rock steady. He piled more logs on the fire, which was burning rapidly, and sat down in the big easy chair again.

  He lit a cigarette and yawned. He puffed lazily for a few minutes, and felt strangely drowsy and at peace.

  ‘Haunted rooms!’ he murmured. ‘The bunk!’

  The cigarette drooped in his lips, and he took it out and tossed it into the fire. He closed his eyes, and his head fell back…

  Ronnie Charton started up in his chair with a horrible screaming cry ringing in his ears. His head was throbbing painfully, and his vision was blurred. For a moment or two he did not even know where he was; and then, as he saw the fire, and the big chair, memory came flooding back.

  But that cry…?

  He must have been dreaming, although he had no recollection of it. His brain seemed solid and dull. It was some little time before he realized, with a start, that the long candles had nearly burned themselves out, and the fire was low. It seemed to him that he had put those fresh logs on only a few minutes ago; but a couple of hours, at least, must have elapsed.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet, and looked into the depths of the room. The sky had apparently cleared, for a shaft of moonlight was slanting from the end window on to the parquet floor, and there was something lying in the moonbeam! Ronnie stood stock still, and his heart faltered. He braced himself and tried to control the sudden shivering of his limbs. There was nothing over there on the floor… There couldn’t be anything… Just a shadow…

  An awful driving force seemed to compel him forward—something entirely outside his own will. His brain was still thick and heavy, and he groped in a dense mental fog. He found himself looking down at the floor where the moonbeam slantingly fell—and the thing he saw brought a shuddering sob of horror into his semi-paralysed throat.

  A man was lying there, face upwards, his sightless eyes flatly and fearfully reflecting the moonlight; a man quaintly dressed in an old-time cape, with a cravat showing behind the rumpled collar. Knee breeches and buckled shoes… But Ronnie Charton saw nothing beyond the figure’s middle. Driven clean through the heart was a broken and jagged-ended iron stake, two feet of which was sticking straight upwards. And a glistening pool on the parquet floor had spread out from the body. Not merely one pool… The polished flooring was drenched with blood all round, and the air was full of an awful nauseating smell…

  ‘My God!’ screamed Ronnie Charton wildly.

  Panic seized him—an awful, crazy, nightmare panic. He flung himself round towards the door, his shoes slipping and slithering on the floor, so that he lost his balance and crashed into the end of the heavy table. Rebounding from this, he tottered to the door, and managed to turn the key in the lock. He was breathing in great sobbing gulps, his face turned over his shoulder, staring… staring…

  How he got the door open he never knew, but he flung himself out, and went running insanely down the stone-flagged passage, scream after scream issuing from his throat in hideous crescendo. As he ran he crashed into obstacle after obstacle, gashing his head, his hands, and his knees. But he felt no pain; he only knew that his brain was on the point of bursting with an unnamed terror.

  He reached the great hall, where a single electric light was burning. He tried to reach the staircase, but failed, and collapsed into a shuddering, quivering heap on the floor.

  III. Ghost, Or…?

  It was significant that of all the people in Cloon Castle, Chief Inspector Cromwell was the first man to appear. In spite of his professed indifference, as expressed to Johnny Lister, he must have been very much on the alert—or, at least, sleeping with one eye open and one ear slightly flapping.

  Quick as he was, however, to hurry out of his bedroom, Johnny and his father were right on his heels as he went loping down the big staircase not unlike a great shaggy bear—a particularly lean and loose-limbed bear—with his hair pointing to all points of the compass, and his dressing-gown waving.

  ‘In God’s name, Johnny, what has happened?’ panted General Lister, as he caught up with his son, and pulled at his arm.

  ‘No good asking me, dad,’ replied Johnny. ‘Something woke me up—shrieks and things—and as soon as I got out of my room I found Ironsides streaking along in front of me. I suppose you heard the shrieks, too?’

  ‘Everybody in the castle must have heard them,’ said his distracted father. ‘It’s that young fool, Charton! I knew what would happen if he went into the Death Room! But I blame myself more than… Well, Cromwell? What are you standing there for? What’s that on the floor?’

  The general and Johnny had just got to the bottom of the stairs, and, turning the angle, they saw that Ironsides was bending over something a few feet away.

  ‘A little more light would help,’ said Cromwell briefly.

  Johnny dashed to the switches, and pressed them. The hall became flooded with light. A babble of voices from upstairs and flitting figures on the great balcony indicated that many other members of the house-party were aroused and coming down to find out what was wrong. A considerable fluttering, rather like a disturbed hen-roost, accompanied by frightened squeaks, proved that the feminine element was on the job, too.

  ‘It’s young Charton,’ said Cromwell unemotionally, as his host reached his side. ‘No, he’s not dead. Not by a mile. But he’s the most frightened man I’ve ever had the misfortune to see. Poor devil! He’s knocked himself about a bit, too, by the look of it—bumping into walls, no doubt, as he ran from the Death Room.’

  Johnny, without waiting, made a dash for the library, and returned with the brandy decanter.

  ‘Good man,’ muttered Ironsides. ‘That is what he needs.’

  A booming voice from upstairs, urging the ladies to be calm, announced the arrival of
Dr. Spencer Ware. He did yeoman work, and General Lister was grateful. He succeeded in bunching the ladies on the balcony, and keeping them there. A lithe young figure in a dressing-gown came tearing downstairs. Gerry Charton, although well over thirty, was as athletic as a youth in his ’teens.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked huskily, as his startled eyes beheld the limp form of his brother in Cromwell’s arms. ‘Is Ronnie hurt? I warned him…’

  ‘Steady, young man,’ interrupted Ironsides. ‘His physical hurts are trivial. All I know is that he let out some of the most fearful screams I had ever heard, and he has had a pile-driving shock. Overwrought nerves, perhaps…’

  ‘It’s in there,’ babbled Ronnie Charton, partially recovering after a big swig of brandy. ‘In the Death Room! I saw it, lying on the floor, in the moonlight! I saw it, I tell you…’

  He broke off, shuddering, and, covering his face with both hands, he sobbed convulsively, his whole body racked. Bill Cromwell allowed him to keep this up for nearly a minute, waving the others back with an authoritative hand. Then, as gentle as a woman, the loose-limbed Yard man gave Ronnie another pull of brandy, and eased him into a more comfortable position. ‘If you’re feeling strong enough…’

  ‘I’m all right—I’m a lot better,’ panted Ronnie, his eyes still wild with fear. ‘I must have fallen asleep… When I woke up I saw that Thing on the floor… Oh-h-h-h!’

  He broke off, and clutched at Ironsides as a child might have clutched at its mother.

  ‘Take it easy, Ronnie, old lad,’ said Gerry gently. ‘You couldn’t have seen anything, really…’

  ‘A man—all funnily dressed—a man lying face upwards, dead,’ breathed Ronnie. ‘There was blood all round—pools of it, gleaming in the moonlight. And right through his heart, a great iron stake!’

  ‘My God!’ whispered General Lister.

  His tone was so strange that Ironsides shot him a quick, searching glance. There was a startling change in the general; his usually healthy, ruddy face was as white as a sheet of paper, his eyes were full of a great horror. Then, without a word, and running unsteadily, he dashed towards the south corridor.