As reprinted from the Boston Herald, April 16, 1897.
“We sailed from Philadelphia on February 9, loaded with grain and lumber and bound for Liverpool. On the morning of the twenty-seventh a sea boarded us, sweeping the decks clean, staving all boats except for one, and smashing things generally. The Witchcraft, a sturdy vessel, had withstood worse in her day, and Capt. Ellis was certain she could hold up under whatever nature saw fit to throw at her. The men were not so sure. There had been a feeling of unease amongst the crew from day one of this particular voyage, and slowly, as the storm encompassed us, that atmosphere blossomed into something near dread.
The reason for the crew’s unease, besides the gale, was, of course, the presence of Mrs. Ellis herself, the captain’s wife, who was nearly full term with child. No man in his right mind puts to sea with a pregnant woman, but the captain’s word was law and the crew dared not question him. Also aboard on this voyage—which was not unusual—was the captain’s Negro servant, known to the crew and myself merely as Williams.
It was early afternoon, March 3, six days into the tempest. We were floundering, not making much headway. The men were exhausted. I was in charge. We hadn’t seen the captain in nearly twenty-four hours.
There came a series of agonizing screams, the likes of which I had never before heard. We all knew that they were coming from the captain’s quarters and that Lady Amelia must be the one making them. Rumor was that Lady Amelia had gone to term early and was delivering the child prematurely. We learned later that the lady in question had indeed given birth, but had died in the process. We were all quite grieved by this terrible news. The child was saved, however, but none of the hands ever saw the purported baby girl.
Rumor spread like fire amongst the crew and it told of a cursed child.
That very afternoon the storm began to subside somewhat and we were all grateful. What we didn’t realize was, we were in the eye of the hurricane. A ship was spotted several hundred yards to leeward. She was listing badly, but after heaving to and signaling, it was determined that she was a ghost ship (which in modern seafaring terms means that she had been deserted some time ago) because no return signal was forthcoming.
The captain had come above deck by this time and he looked drawn and pallid. His eyes were dulled, and haunted. He did not speak much and no one dared approach him.
Well, the captain surveyed the ghost ship with his glass and determined that there was a lantern aglow on her decks. How a lantern could stay lit in such a gale was beyond me, and I told the captain so. But he just looked at me in that odd, dull way and I knew in that moment that he must be suffering greatly with the loss of Lady Amelia..
After a brief—and somewhat heated—consultation between the captain and myself it was decided to heave too for a second time and go to the assistance of the ship which was drifting far to leeward by then. Just before dark we had worked up as close to the stranger as we dared—given the uncertainty of the tempest—and we hove too under a goose-wing main topsail.
We ran across her stern, hailing as we passed, and sure enough, a lone man appeared on her deck just standing there motionless in the midst of that gale.
It was evident that we could not dally a moment longer, for the storm was once again burgeoning and the ghost ship was now taking on heavy amounts of water and listing severely to starboard. It was determined that she would not last the night. At any rate, Captain Ellis immediately sent the lone whaleboat under my command to the sailor’s relief. By this time night had fallen. It was pitch-dark and to add to our misfortunes, a sudden ice storm set in. Seas were twenty-five feet and we were unsure if the whaleboat would even hold up under such conditions. We slowly bridged the gap between the Witchcraft and the ghost ship, however. In time she could be seen as a dark shadow in the roiling cauldron of the sea. We hailed the stranger but to no avail. If indeed he had ever had a voice, it was now silent. I made the decision to stay with the whaleboat while the other five hands went aboard in search of the man. We managed to grab a dragging line. I tied her off and the men scrambled up her listing hull, deck-side.
After a time my men were back, sliding back down the rope, and with them, the stranger, who carried with him a rather large vessel of some kind. At first I thought it was a seaman’s chest, but the more I gazed at it the more un-convinced I became of its identity. The look of it was quite disturbing. Whenever I chanced a glance toward it I got this most dreadful feeling. The shape wasn’t exactly right either, and to be truthful it seemed to change its shape with each passing scrutiny. Some sort of strange animal-like hide seemed to be stretched over it, scaly, like that of a reptile, black and deep purple in color, and the illusion was that it pulsed like some terrible beating heart, as if it contained something alive. But in all honesty, I cannot now swear to any of these assertions. It was dark, the tempest was raging and I was very tired and frightened.
The vessel appeared quite heavy and cumbersome, but the gentlemen did not seem at all burdened by its weight or mass. He stood straight and undaunted by it, sliding down the rope with one extraordinarily long arm looped around its massive bulk while using the other hand to descend. When two of my men came to his aid and offered to help him the man shook his head resolutely but did not utter a single word. Instead there was something in his eyes that made us not wish to challenge him. He was an odd-looking fellow, quite tall and thin, light complexioned, with skin like wax. He did not speak, but kept to himself, and after that first encounter would not meet my eyes directly. I became quite nervous. From the moment he and that strange vessel came aboard the whaleboat I felt something was not quite right. The men had also become edgy with the stranger aboard and there were looks in their eyes that had not been there before departing the whaleboat, strange, almost haunted looks.
We made our way back to the Witchcraft safely and the captain greeted our guest with standard protocol. There were words exchanged between the captain and the stranger but the storm was noisy, I was busy setting the riggings and I did not catch what was said. The stranger was shown to his quarters—not once relinquishing the massive trunk to any of the men—and then he was back with the captain—evidently leaving the trunk behind. It was decided that explanations could wait till morning, for the storm was burgeoning with a fury we had not yet seen. All that night the stranger worked silently beside us, and just before dawn he slipped away. Nobody saw him again.
In the morning, the captain’s beloved Amelia was buried at sea. The stranger did not appear. Later two men were assigned to find him. Those two men became sick with fever and died. Neither the stranger nor the odd-looking vessel of which he’d carried aboard was ever again seen.
It was said that Williams had stayed below to care for the captain’s newborn child, for he was not seen again until the end of the voyage, when he hastily left the ship carrying a bundle that might or might not have been a child.
One thing was certain, however. The voyage had become cursed. Following the death of the two hands, Captain Ellis decided to make way back to homeport. The next night three more hands became sick with fever.
A terrible disease ensued and burial at sea became commonplace. Some men on board had taken to praying that Witchcraft would never reach her destination. And they were right in doing so, for no one wished to carry this strange and deadly malady home to loved ones.
Nevertheless, amid ferocious seas and an infuriating tempest that dogged us nearly the whole way we set sail for James Village. It was a nightmare voyage, men becoming sick and dying in the most horrible way. Upon arriving in homeport, all but Captain Ellis, three others and myself were gone. There were twenty-three in all who had perished.
In dry-dock Witchcraft was thoroughly searched. Not a plank was left unturned. But no sign of the stranger and his odd vessel was ever found. The Witchcraft was subsequently scuttled, set adrift upon the surface of the St. James River and burned to the waterline as the families of the dead stood in the glare of the great river pyre, weeping and cur
sing God for his cruelty.”
Upon reading the account of First Mate Joshua Whitney in the Boston Herald, this reporter made the decision to post a letter to Capt. Ellis who reportedly, since the tragedy, had been holed up at his residence in the small sea-faring hamlet of James Village. Within a fortnight I received a return reply stating that my presence would be welcomed for an interview if so desired. The captain said that there had been so much speculation concerning the ill-fated voyage that he had decided to set the record straight once and for all. The good captain also informed me that he would send coach and driver to the Portland station on specified time and date.
I was delighted, and hastily made arrangements for my departure.
I am delighted no longer. I have been a prisoner here at Ellis Manor for quite a long stretch of time. I am uncertain as to how many days and nights have passed, for the darkness is all pervading and the fever has kept me somewhat delirious and tied to bed. Williams, the manservant sees to my every need. Although he is far from a talkative chap he has managed to make clear some very important details of my residency: a warning against drawing the curtains open in daylight hours, for one thing. I have not been in a position to argue, for with the fever, I have discovered that even a single shaft of sunlight is enough to cause my head to spin wildly with agony. What is this strange and terrible sickness that has befallen me? I pray for deliverance, but as each day passes I fear that I have become infected with the same fever that took the lives of so many hands aboard Witchcraft.
As of yet I have not been granted the promised interview with Captain Ellis. Furthermore I have not laid eyes on the man, although a stranger has been round from time to time. I have awakened in delirium and found him standing above the bed staring curiously down at me.
It seems that, for the time being, at least, I have become a prisoner here in this cold stone manner house, a house that as far as I can determine is both beautiful and strangely disturbing. In the night I hear strange noises from somewhere within the walls of this mysterious place and my fevered dreams are filled with the sounds of silvery laughter, as if from the mouth of a child, followed thereafter by blood-curdling screams. And in my delirium I see flaming eyes, blood-red lips, and sharp, terrible fangs. The only explanation for these strange and horrifying delusions—the only explanation I will allow myself to entertain—is of course, this cursed fever.
I know not how much longer I will be forced to wait here in this nightmare house for an interview with Captain Ellis, but since eating the warm, red porridge my spirits and general health seem to be on the upswing, and I have decided to relate to the best of my recollection the events of the past several days, beginning when the chartered coach entered the village proper, and I will try to convey as best I can the strong sense of fear and unreality that overtook me from that moment on until now.
The coach trundled through the narrow cobbled streets of the old village, the galloping trot of the sweated horses echoing back at us like gunshots off the brick townhouses that lined both sides of the shadowy riverside passage.
Although it was a hot mid-summer day, clammy and close, the streets were completely devoid of pedestrians. This troubled me. I was troubled by something else, as well. The driver, upon meeting me at the Portland station, seemed upset that the Concord Coach, that of which had provided my transportation from Boston, was late in arriving. I found him pacing nervously, pulling his watch out every few seconds and glaring grimly at it. He hastened me quickly aboard his coach stating flatly that we must hurry, that we must make Ellis Manor before nightfall.
I did not argue, wondering if his manners and the short, humorless way in which I had been treated were common attributes of all James Village natives. There was no doubt about his urgency, however, for the entire distance between Portland and James Village he sat on his box whipping those poor horses nearly to death.
Once inside the village limits, however, the driver slowed the horses to a brisk trot. As the coach trundled through the village’s main thoroughfare I cast my eyes curiously to the left and up, and saw, above the rooftops and beyond the townhouse chimneys, littered across the terraced hillside, caught in the last burning rays of a dying sun, scores of small, gothic-style houses; old, stolid in their implacable equanimity, and nestled in amongst them, an ancient Anglican church with its tall, reflective cross atop its towering steeple stabbing at the heavens like some great, malevolent dagger.
I looked away then, not knowing exactly why, but having the strong sense that something was horribly amiss in this small coastal New England village. I know that such a conclusion was rash, but I could not help myself; as we rode I became increasingly troubled. Not only did the driver’s urgency and the frenetic pace in which he had driven the team trouble me, but there seemed to be something else happening as well. I am not certain that I can adequately explain what, but I will try: it was as if my entire being had become overwhelmed with a sense of reverie, as though I had slept for a time and then awakened in a half-dream. Yet strangely I was fully aware of the fact that I had not slept at all.
I had been under the impression upon leaving Boston that I would be visiting a bustling community of shipbuilders and seafarers, but as I gazed out into those barren stone streets, not a single soul was in evidence, and an oppressiveness as dark and as claustrophobic as the spirit of death lay gloomy and close over the entire village.
What could this mean? I asked myself. What is wrong in this place? My silent questions were answered almost immediately by the driver’s urgent summons:
“Aye, Mr. Tittleman, the night is near upon us and we must hasten indoors and bar entrance lest we be caught in its fearsome grip. Can you not feel its weight bearing down upon us?” The driver had turned toward me and I saw in his eyes a cast of almost inexplicable fright, and his mouth was set in a grim line of disconcert.
“Rubbish,” I shouted in reply, knowing full well that it was my own sense of rising paranoia that I was trying to extinguish. “It is merely the night, after all. What harm can be found in the night?” By then I was leaning halfway out of the window, cupping both hands round my mouth so the burgeoning wind could not steal my voice. “Why would one wish to hasten indoors and bar entrance?” The driver turned back to me but did not reply. I could clearly see by the cast of his eyes and the grim set of his jaw that he was staid in his conviction, however. He then crossed himself, and an icy finger of fear crawled up my spine. I could sense suddenly that I was in the midst of some unspoken pall that I did not, and perhaps never could grasp. I slid back through the carriage window and settled uneasily back into my seat, and as I chanced a glance to the side, I saw with much trepidation that in some of the houses along the shadowy passage, the curtains were drawn back ever so slightly and eyes—eyes as sharp and as glittering as blood-rubies, eyes that could be at home only in the night—were staring out at the coach as it trundled noisily past. An unwitting shudder went through me, chilling me to the bone, for I felt that those terrible eyes had seen into my depths, perhaps to the heart of my very soul. I pulled my coat around me and hugged myself to keep warm even though the temperature outside must surely have been tottering close to the eighty-degree mark.
“Tis the way of the Village,” the driver barked suddenly. “They are all in their houses with the doors barred. Since the end of that damned ill-fated voyage, when night falls it happens.”
“What happens?” I asked.
“Children!” the driver replied, as if any fool should have known. “Be warned. Do not venture out after dark, neither the village nor the countryside, for the little demons roam. Tis the curse of Satan himself, I tell you.”
“Children? Little demons?” I repeated in awe, not understanding, perhaps not wanting to understand the implications of that statement. I observed then that I had unwittingly grasped the side rail to steady myself and the knuckles of my hands had gone white with strain. The curse of Satan? Surely this was madness. Surely this entire day was madness. I settled myself une
asily back into the seat as the carriage cleared the village proper, entering once again the ominous darkness of woods. For this I was somewhat grateful, for in darkness, I believed foolishly, those glittering eyes could no longer gaze upon me.
The driver upped his pace then; he was frenzied beyond belief, unmercifully whipping those poor animals as the sky darkened overhead with the coming of a summer storm. The air grew heavy with the oppressive sense of moisture. Thunder muttered uneasily in the distance and jagged forks of lightening licked at the earth like the tongues of serpents. The coach yawed and strained against its springs.
Off to my right and through the trees I caught a glimpse of the River St. James and the masts of clippers, brigs, barks and schooners bobbing in its uneasy swells. Above and beyond the masts, some distance away, toward the south, a gray pall of clouds swirled and massed in a harried whirlwind. And through the swirling mass I chanced a glimpse of a lofty crag. For the most part, the crag was encompassed in dark forest, save the very summit, which seemed curiously devoid of flora. I was captured immediately by the sight of that odd vortex swirling round that craggy spire, never before being witness to such a peculiar phenomenon. My body gave yet another unwitting shudder.
What is this strange place? I asked myself. A place I had so fervently journeyed to. Could it be that the accounts I had read and the rumors I had scoffed at in my own overly cynical, journalistic mind could, in fact, be correct? Could it be that the published accounts of the first mate of the clipper, Witchcraft and its mysterious voyage were indeed fact and that something was strangely amiss in this tiny village? I realized suddenly that I had journeyed all this way to dispel those very myths. Now I could do nothing but fight the growing sense of alarm inside of me.
Servants of Darkness (Thirteen Creepy Tales) Page 10