Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror

by Chris Priestley

  But I did not think the worse of my uncle for this fabrication. I simply took it as a sign of his eccentricity. After a quick backwards glance at the house, I set off home.

  I was never in any way tempted to stray from the path and, though I was sure that the woods were perfectly safe, nor was I inclined to dawdle. My uncle's concern was entirely misplaced. I would not have tarried in those woods for all the tea in China.

  I had never before left it this late to return home and I was struck by how the darkness seemed to descend like a curtain, so that while it had seemed merely dusk when I left my uncle's door, night had truly enveloped me by the time I reached the wood.

  As I did so I heard what I took to be my uncle's dog howling and resolved again to ask him about the animal, for I had never seen it in the grounds, nor had my uncle ever mentioned it. I was fond of animals.

  Walking between the trees, I fancied that I saw shapes congealing out of the surrounding blackness and I became suddenly colder. I felt compelled to stop and peer into the dark to satisfy myself that I was troubled by my boyish imaginings and nothing more.

  But quite the opposite effect was produced. Now that my eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and now that I really concentrated my gaze, I could see that I was clearly not alone.

  'Hello!' I called with a confidence I did not feel.

  'Who's there?'

  I saw by the silhouettes that the figures surrounding me were children. It was a group of the village lads, rather a large group. As usual, they said nothing - simply stood among the trees . . . silently . . . malevolently.

  I prepared myself for a beating; I could never have reached the safety of my house before they caught me. But I am English and have spent my life at one of the finest schools in the country. I could take a beating.

  The crowd of boys moved closer. I could make out none of their features as they seemed to bring their own shadows with them. I tried to look as contemptuous as possible, while steeling myself against the punches and kicks I felt sure were about to rain down on me.

  But strange to say, instead of blows, tentative fingers stretched out towards me, as if the children - and I could now see by their silhouettes that there were girls as well as boys in the gang - were both afraid and eager to touch me.

  'Enough!' said a voice behind me.

  The children sprang back and I turned, startled, to see my uncle carrying a lantern. I was relieved to see him, of course, but I still had enough pride to be a little embarrassed at being rescued by my elderly relative.

  'Joseph, Matthew,.' he said crossly. 'Leave him be.'

  'You know these boys?' I asked, astonished that he knew their names and recognised them in such poor light.

  'Yes, Edgar,.' he said in a curious tone. 'I know these children well.'

  'I don't understand, sir,.' I said.

  Uncle Edgar looked at me and smiled wearily.

  'You asked me for one more story, Edgar,.' he said. 'Very well, then. You shall have one more story: my own . . .'

  'I was once a teacher, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague, stretching the muscles of his neck as if he was suddenly very tired. 'Did you know that?'

  'No, sir,.' I said. My uncle had never previously seen fit to tell me anything of consequence about his life.

  Uncle Montague looked grim.

  'Yes, Edgar,.' he answered. There was an almost imperceptible movement among the surrounding children - as if they had all flinched at the same time. 'My house was a school then, and I was its headmaster: a cruel and wicked headmaster, Edgar.'

  'Surely not, Uncle,.' I said. The children seemed to have taken a step nearer, though they were still beyond the range of Uncle Montague's lantern.

  'I am afraid so,.' he said, casting a glance at the surrounding figures. 'I had begun my teaching life eager to impart the wonders of the world to my little flock of pupils, but over time, something happened to me, Edgar. I cannot say exactly what it was, but it was a kind of death; or rather something worse than death - a death of the soul.'

  I moved to interrupt, but Uncle Montague continued.

  'I wish that I could say my cruelty was of the ordinary sort - that I beat my children or forced them to stand for hours on a chair. I wish I could tell you that I humiliated them in front of their fellows. But no, Edgar - my cruelty was of a darker shade altogether.

  'I wore the outward mask of a good and caring teacher, but unbeknown to those poor children, who looked up to me and worked so hard to win my praise, I was unworthy of their respect.'

  Uncle Montague said these words with a heartrending mixture of bitterness and regret and closed his eyes as if in prayer. The children around us bristled and inched closer. I gave a disapproving look to the child nearest to me.

  'I do not understand, Uncle,.' I said.

  'I developed an addiction to games of chance, Edgar,.' he said with a sigh. 'Finally settling on cards as my principal form of gambling. I was a good player, but even the greatest must lose, and lose I did. Gradually all my savings were eaten away and I was forced to look for another source of money to take to the table.'

  'Uncle?' I asked, seeing the strange look that played across his face.

  'I began to . . . steal from the boys, Edgar,.' he said, looking away.

  'Steal, sir?' I said, not quite able to take in the enormity of this crime - that a grown man, and a teacher at that, would steal from a child.

  'You are right to be shocked, Edgar,.' he said quietly. 'It was a terrible betrayal of trust. But it is one for which I have paid a very heavy price.' Again the children shifted noiselessly.

  'I intercepted letters from the children,.' my uncle continued, 'forging their handwriting and adding postscripts begging for money - money I intercepted as it came to the school. It did not stop at money. Presents sent to the boys by their doting mothers, I took for myself. I ate their birthday treats in my office and amused myself by offering the odd morsel to the boy for whom it had been intended. I had become utterly wretched, Edgar, and wallowed in my wretchedness as a hog revels in its own filth.'

  I found it hard to meet my uncle's eyes and only the dread of seeing the shadowy figures grouped ever more closely about us persuaded me to look him in the face.

  'Of course, these thefts were bound to come to light,.' he resumed. 'And sure enough, I began to receive complaints from parents, as well as from some of the braver boys. I put them off for as long as I could, but eventually I was forced to act. I could, even then, have simply owned up to my crime and taken the resulting disgrace. How attractive that disgrace seems now, Edgar. I would embrace it now like a long-lost brother. But I was far too weak and odious to confess.

  'Instead, another course of action occurred to me. There was a boy at the school. His name was William Collins. He was an orphan. His fees were paid through a firm of lawyers in the City. He was not popular with the other boys, for he was aloof and awkward.

  'The curious thing was that it was this very aloofness that, even in the depths of my wretchedness, endeared him to me. It had been years since I had felt anything other than loathing and contempt towards the children, but I liked William. He reminded me of myself at his age.' Uncle smiled at the memory.

  'But what has William to do with the thefts, sir?'

  I asked.

  His smile dissolved.

  'I had decided that I would implicate one of the boys in the thefts, Edgar. For some perverse reason I decided that I would choose . . . William: the one boy I had any fellow feeling for. To this day I cannot say why.'

  'And did it work?' I said, surprised by how cold my voice sounded.

  'Yes,.' said Uncle Montague grimly. 'The boys were only too ready to accept it. William came to me, pleading with me to make them understand that he was innocent. I reassured him that I would do everything in my power, but of course I did nothing at all.' Uncle Montague looked straight into my eyes, his face like a carved mask. 'He was badly beaten.

  'Parents demanded that something be done about this
thief. I wrote to William's lawyers, explaining the circumstances and requesting, with great regret, that they place William at another school.'

  'And what happened to him, sir?' I asked.

  Uncle Montague sighed. The children scurried forward a few inches.

  'William came to my study. He was distraught. His face was bruised. He had been beaten again. I could not bear to see him in that state and know that I was the cause, but instead of standing up and putting an end to his misery, I sent him away. I told him that he must face these things and be a man.'

  'And then?' I asked, fearing the answer. My uncle made no response. Every silhouetted face turned to his, and they seemed to be urging him silently to answer.

  'What happened then?' I said again.

  'He took his own life, Edgar.'

  I gasped with horror.

  'Yes! He took his own life, driven to it by my lies and vile trickery. No one knew my part in his death, but the suicide was enough to persuade parents to take their children away from the school and soon it was empty of all but the most unloved boys, and there were few signs of attracting new blood.

  'William's death had shaken me, of course, but I had no idea of the journey I was yet to embark on. Gambling was at the root of all my problems, but so addicted was I that instead of simply stopping, I decided to let chance decide my fate. I swore that if Fortune let me win, then I would dedicate myself to needy children hereabouts. If I lost, then I would give myself up to the authorities and answer for my past misdeeds.

  'I found a whistle I used to wear around my neck in happier times. It was a whistle I used to rally the boys when we were engaged in one of our many nature trails or historical outings. I had not used it in many a year and I put it in my pocket as a lucky charm. Gamblers are as superstitious as sailors, Edgar.

  'I decided I would take all the money I had squir-relled away to a rather dubious club in town and play the cards one last time.

  'As I reached the door of the club and was about to climb the dimly lit steps to its entrance, I saw out of the corner of my eye a group of shabbily dressed children standing some way off in the shadows on the other side of the road. The presence of those urchins should have served as a reminder of my purpose as I entered the club, but I was already forgetting my oath.

  'Much to my surprise, my luck had changed. I could not lose. One by one, my fellow gamblers cashed in and left as the pot grew larger and larger. Other customers of the club came to watch. I had never won so much money in all my days of gambling. As I left the club, loaded with cash and promissory notes I looked for the children, but there was no sign of them. I took the whistle from my pocket and gave it a grateful kiss. I hailed a cab, spent the night in the Savoy and returned to the house the following day.

  'My final night of gambling was nothing of the sort, of course. No gambler wins like that and stops. Instead, I spent some of my winnings on fine clothes and tried my luck at another, more salubrious club near Piccadilly.

  'Once again, as I paid the cab and tapped the pavement with my silver-tipped cane, I saw a group of children standing some way off in the shadows. It seemed a strange coincidence, and I took their presence as a good sign.

  'So it turned out to be. I won again and handsomely. In fact, I won every time I went to the card tables. I won so often that I was accused of cheating, but though I would not have been above such a thing, I just seemed to be having a run of the most extraordinary luck. The clubs began to refuse me entry, of course. They could not prove that I was cheating; it was enough that I was ruining their businesses.

  'My gambling club days were over. So I invested some of my winnings and discovered that I had the same good fortune in my investments that I had enjoyed at the card table. I seemed unable to lose. I was soon rather rich and I must say I enjoyed it. I was now perfectly placed to pursue the course I had promised myself - to engage in an act of benevolence and educate the unfortunates of the local area. But I had not changed, Edgar.

  'In fact, I closed the school and sent the few remaining children away. All thoughts of my promise to school the local children had left my mind. I returned the house to the grand residence it had been in former times and began to receive the attentions of a relative - a nephew who lived nearby, whose interest in me just happened to coincide with my new-found fortune.'

  'My father?' I said.

  'Your father?' said Uncle Montague. 'No - your grandfather, I think. It has been so long I cannot recall. I was never a family man.'

  'But that would make you -' I began.

  'Very old indeed,.' said Uncle Montague. 'Yes. The house keeps me alive, Edgar - after a fashion.' A strange expression played across his face. 'But I did not know that then. I was still in a state of blissful ignorance. I was so wealthy that I did not care. I could do what I liked now. Or so I thought.'

  'What do you mean, sir?'

  'One day, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague, 'I was standing in the grounds of my house - the gardens were quite lovely then - and realised that I still had my old school whistle in my pocket - my lucky charm from my gambling days. I felt a tiny pang of regret for breaking my promise, but it passed like a bout of indigestion. I took the whistle from my pocket and put it to my lips. I had a sudden urge to hear its cheerful trill once more.

  'I blew, but no sound came. I told myself that the whistle was broken, but I came to realise that it was not broken but altered; it had become akin to one of those special whistles only dogs can hear. Though I heard no sound, I was aware of some vibration in the air that rippled outwards. The sky clouded over and the temperature dropped. I shuddered, and not only with the cold . . .'

  'Uncle?' I said, for he seemed to have drifted into a kind of daze.

  'Ah yes,.' he said. 'That was when they began to come: to come in answer to the whistle's silent call.'

  'The children?' I asked, looking at the group gathered about us and wondering how it could be that they would hear a whistle my uncle could not and why they would come to its sound. I feared for my uncle's sanity more than ever.

  'The children, yes,.' said Uncle Montague. 'They are my punishment, Edgar.'

  'Your punishment, sir?' I said, wondering what hold these local boys could possibly have over him, though he seemed at ease in their company and had no qualms in sharing the shocking details of his life with them.

  'The house is an accursed place, Edgar,.' he said.

  'You must have felt it.'

  'There is a strange atmosphere, sir,.' I said. 'It is a little cold.'

  Uncle Montague chuckled at this and I saw the children flinch.

  'A little cold?' he repeated. 'Yes, Edgar. It is a little cold. Is that not right, children?' This was the first time he had addressed them and they became agitated, though they remained silent throughout.

  'You have still not explained what these children are doing here, Uncle,.' I said.

  'Can you not guess, Edgar?' he asked.

  'No, sir,.' I said. 'I cannot. Are you educating the village children to make amends for what happened at your school?'

  He smiled grimly and shook his head.

  'These are not village children, Edgar. I think that in your heart you know that.'

  'Sir?' I said, determined to cling to the rational.

  'What do you mean?'

  'They tell me their tales, Edgar,.' he said. 'They come to me and tell me their tales. They bring me some token of their story and these accursed objects now litter my house - a house now utterly drenched in a strange otherness that contaminates the walls and grounds and the man you see before you. It is a magnet for creatures of a twilight world, Edgar, a world you cannot imagine. The house calls to them as lamplight calls to a moth.'

  'But if the house is so awful, sir,.' I said, doing everything in my power to avoid looking back towards the shadowy children. 'Why do you not leave?'

  'Oh, Franz would not like that, Edgar,.' he said.

  'And it does not do to upset Franz.'

  'But I do not underst
and, Uncle,.' I said. 'Franz is your servant.'

  'Franz used to be my servant long ago, when he was fully alive . . .'

  'When he was fully alive, Uncle?' I said. 'But what can you mean? Either someone is alive or he is . . .' I could not bring myself to finish the sentence. My uncle's guilt had clearly unhinged his mind.

  'The house has changed Franz utterly,.' he said. 'There is no way he would let me leave, Edgar, even if I had the will to try. He is more jailer than servant now. But it is no more than I deserve. There are many breaking rocks and rotting in stinking jails for far lesser crimes than I have committed.' He paused. 'But strange to say, Edgar, I no longer fear my visitors as I once did. I am at peace. I have accepted my fate. It is my punishment for those years of not listening to my pupils, for not listening to William.'

  'You cannot mean to say, sir . . .' I began. 'You do not mean to say that the stories you tell me are from these children's lips?'

  Uncle Montague nodded.

  'But how can that be?' I asked, faltering slightly as the children craned forward, seemingly hanging on my every word. 'Surely that would mean . . .'

  'Yes, Edgar?'

  'Surely that would mean these children - some of these children, at least - were . . . dead?'

  At that word the figures all around us leaped away and disappeared into the trees, peering out from behind the trunks, and though they were beshadowed as before, I knew that every eye was trained on me.

  'They do not like that word, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague. 'It disturbs them.'

  'It disturbs them?' I said, only the fear of running headlong into one of these phantoms stopping me from fleeing that instant.

  'They bring me their tales and I listen,.' my uncle went on. 'William was the first, though I knew his tale all too well, of course. Ever since then, they have been coming to me. I am like a strange cousin of the Ancient Mariner, Edgar. Do you know the poem?'