DARK ENCOUNTERS
A Collection of Ghost Stories
William Croft Dickinson
Professor Dickinson's talent for evoking suspense, wonder and at times terror, owes much to his creation of a placid, scholarly atmosphere suddenly disturbed by something strange and inexplicable.
In this collection - which might well have been given the title 'Ghost Stories of a Scottish Antiquary' - archaeologists, historians and scientists find themselves unexpectedly faced with a return from the past which comes to them in unusual, and sometimes forbidding forms.
Almost every story is based upon some well known event or incident, and the development of the story is so convincing that it is difficult to decide when - if ever - the known and established facts give way to pure imagination.
All good ghost stories should arouse curiosity: some should communicate fear. Professor Dickinson's readers will certainly wonder if these strange happenings could occur - or perhaps even did occur. And sometimes, with a slight shudder down the spine, they will ask themselves - how, and why?
Professor William Croft (1897 ~ 1963) died in Edinburgh shortly after correcting the proofs of this book.
CONTENTS
The Keepers of the Wall
Return at Dusk
The Eve of St Botulph
Can These Stones Speak?
The Work of Evil
The Return of the Native
Quieta Non Movere
Let the Dead Bury the Dead
The Castle Guide
The Witch’s Bone
The Sweet Singers
The House of Balfother
His Own Number
DARK ENCOUNTERS
THE KEEPERS OF THE WALL
I SEE THAT SOMEONE has discovered a number of skeletons beneath the foundations of a wall and has brought forward the old idea that they were put there so that their ghosts could hold up the wall.’
‘And why not?’ interposed Henderson. ‘It was long thought that burying a body under a wall would help to hold the wall secure.’
‘Didn’t Gordon Childe find something like that at Skara Brae?’ queried Drummond.
‘Yes,’ Henderson confirmed. ‘He found the skeletons of two old women at the foot of one of the walls; but he made only a suggestion that possibly they had been buried there so that their ghosts could hold up the wall. A guess, if you like. But a good guess.’
‘I could tell you of a much more modern instance,’ put in Robson, our new Professor of Mediæval Archæology. And I noticed that he spoke hesitantly. ‘A sixteenth-century instance. Ghosts to hold up a wall. Perhaps even ghosts to gather the living to help them in their task,’ he added slowly. ‘Don’t ask me to explain what I mean by that. I just don’t know. All I know is that recently I had a terrifying experience on the west coast — an experience that still makes me frightened of visiting ancient ruins by night.’
‘I once had a terrifying experience myself,’ said Drummond, quietly. ‘You’ll find at least one listener who’ll understand. And the oftener you tell a tale, the less it haunts you.’
‘Well, perhaps I’ll find some of your relief, Drummond, by telling you the story of my night in the castle of Dunross — in March of this year, just before I came to Edinburgh to take up my chair.’
As you probably know, Dunross is one of a small group of interesting twelfth-century stone castles on the western seaboard. Only one of its sea-walls still stands, right up to the original wall-head (a feature which I now know only too well); the other two sea-walls have fallen down the cliff in a cascade of stones to the sea. The remaining wall, the landward wall, is little more than a few feet high, ruined and broken, though in it there is an entrance-gate with the remains of a stone stairway that undoubtedly rose up to the wall-walk. The better-known and better-preserved castles of Kisimul, Mingary and Tioram, each of them, like Dunross, perched on a sea rock, follow much the same plan; and I had a theory that the siting, the plan, and the constructional details of all four were so closely related that they bespoke the work of one particular school of military architects. Because of that, I had decided to make a careful examination of Dunross to confirm my belief that it fitted into the general plan of the group.
Right at the start I was fortunate enough to find a crofter living by himself in a good-sized house some two or three miles from the castle. He had more than one room to spare, and he was more than willing to put me up. Moreover, he seemed to take a keen interest in my work, and came to join me every evening so that we could go home from Dunross together. And, as we walked back to his house, I would burden him with architectural details in which, as I was to learn in the end, he took no interest whatsoever.
I had appreciated his regular evening call, and had looked upon it as a friendly act. I had also appreciated our regular walk home. But when, on the night prior to my departure, I told him I would have to make one last visit to the castle in order to check a detail of the entrance-gate which I had not entered clearly enough in my note-book, I discovered he had had a definite reason of his own for calling to pick me up at the end of each day’s work.
‘You will not be going to Dunross in the night?’ he asked, as I prepared to set out.
‘Why, yes,’ I replied. ‘I just want to check a detail of the entrance-gate. I’ll soon be back; and I have a torch. But don’t wait up for me.’
‘You cannot go there after the dark,’ he replied, fiercely. ‘It would be madness. You would not come back. The wall would shut you in.’
I looked at him with astonishment. ‘The wall would shut me in,’ I repeated, lamely.
‘Just so,’ he answered. ‘And for why would you think I have brought you away every evening as the darkness was closing in? Was it not to make sure you would not be kept there, like the rest of them? Shut in by the wall, to help to hold it firm.’
‘To hold what wall firm? And how?’ I asked, more mystified still. ‘And who are “the rest”, anyway?’
‘You did not know, then?’
I shook my head.
‘It is the ghosts of the MacLeods,’ he replied. ‘And since you do not know, I must tell you what way it is.’
And thereupon he told me a strange tale that, away back in the past, when there was a long-standing feud between the MacLeods and the MacDonalds of Clanranald, the MacDonalds had seized a birlinn, manned by MacLeods, and had brought the boat and their prisoners to Dunross. It was a time when MacDonald himself was rebuilding one of the sea-walls of his castle. So what did MacDonald do? Some of the MacLeods were just thrown into the dungeons, and left to starve there till they died; but six of them, fine strong fellows, were buried at the foot of MacDonald’s new wall so that their ghosts would hold it secure. And that, I was told, was the one sea-wall which still stood, with never a stone that had fallen from it. Had I not seen it for myself? The other walls were ruined and tumbled down. But the ghosts of the six MacLeods would always hold that one sea-wall secure and strong.
‘Well, that may be so,’ I answered, when he had finished. ‘But I still don’t see why it should be dangerous to go to Dunross by night. As long as those ghosts are holding up the wall it can hardly fall down on me.’
‘May be so!’ he repeated, his eyes flashing. ‘I tell you, man, it is so. No one has gone to Dunross by night and returned again. The MacLeods are wearying of their work and aye seeking others to share with them the burden of the wall.’
‘And so evening visitors have been compelled to stay on,’ I rejoined. And probably there was a little banter in my tone.
‘I have told you the tale of it,’ he replied, with Highland dignity. ‘My father knew it, and his father before him. And, for a truth, they told
me of two men who did not return. One, I mind, was a shepherd, seeking a ewe that had strayed; the other was a young man like yourself, who had come from the south and who would not be believing in ghosts and in walls that could shut a man in.’
With that parting shot he left me, to attend to some small task of his own. I could see that my disbelief had offended him, but I knew that the hurt would soon pass. But what of his tale? Of course I didn’t believe it. And yet, for a brief space, I did hesitate about my final visit to Dunross. In the end I decided to go. Walls simply did not shut one in; and probably every Scottish castle had its ghost. Moreover, I did not want to leave without checking that detail of the entrance-gate.
‘A typical legend,’ I muttered to myself as I slipped on my oilskin. I felt my torch in my pocket. I had that, anyway. I opened the door quietly and stepped out into the night.
I must admit that as I walked along the rough track that led to Dunross I was by no means as carefree as I would have been had my host not told his tale. I was ready to start at every shadow, and when, at last, I saw the dim outline of the ruined castle ahead of me, I stopped and very nearly turned back. But that reference to the ‘young man from the south who did not believe in ghosts’ acted as a challenge. I would go on and check that detail of the entrance-gate. More than that, I would go up to MacDonald’s sea-wall, give it a resounding slap with my hand, say ‘Good-bye’ to the ghosts of the MacLeods, and then return to my host and tell him what I had done.
I walked boldly up to the castle. With the aid of my torch I studied the detail of the ruined entrance-gate. Then, sitting down on the grass, I propped my torch against a stone and made the necessary additional drawings in my note-book. By the time I had finished, all my misgivings had passed. I got up, shone my torch ahead of me, and marched boldly through the entrance-gate, across the castle-court, and straight up to the one high-standing and unbroken sea-wall.
‘So much for ghosts,’ I said aloud, as I stood a few feet from the wall, playing my torch up and down its length. And, at that very instant, my torch went out.
It would be idle to pretend that I was not frightened. I half-turned, and was on the point of running back to the entrance-gate, when I pulled myself together. A wall was a wall, and nothing more. Moreover, although the night was not completely black, I realized that I might easily stumble over one or more of the many fallen stones in the castle-court — and possibly sprain an ankle, perhaps even break a leg. And what should I do then?
‘Don’t be a fool,’ I remember saying to myself. ‘Have a look at your torch.’
The battery had given no previous indication that it was running down. Probably there was simply a faulty contact. I struck the torch gently against the palm of my hand. Nothing happened. Somewhat anxiously I struck it this way and that, again and again. Still it refused to work. The answer could only be that the filament in the bulb had broken. ‘Damn the thing,’ I said, and stuffed it back into my pocket. I would have to crawl on all fours to the entrance-gate. Safer that way. And I would get some assistance from the faint light in the sky.
Then I remembered my matches! I opened the box carefully and felt inside. Good! There were quite a number left. Certainly enough to light my way through the fallen stones. And there was no wind.
I took out a match and struck it; but it failed to light. Thinking I had struck the wrong end of the match, I turned it round in my fingers and again struck it on the box. Still no light came. Throwing the match away, I took out another. Again the match refused to light. Frenziedly, and with shaking hands, I tried match after match, but not one would strike. I came to the last match of all. I prayed that it would strike. But there was still the same hard scrape on the sandpaper of the box, and no welcome blaze of light.
After that, it is difficult to tell you what happened. To say that I was now frightened would be an understatement. I was terrified. Yet somehow I still kept myself under control. Almost as soon as I had thrown away my last match I dropped down on to my hands and knees, turned my back to the wall, and began to crawl away as fast as I could. In that way, I assured myself, I was bound to find the entrance-gate in time. And pray heaven it would not take long.
I had crawled perhaps twenty yards when I came to fallen stones. That meant I was now well away from the wall. I looked up, hoping to see the low ruins of the landward-wall silhouetted against the sky. Instead, I saw in front of me the high-towering unbroken sea-wall from which I had fled.
At once I turned and crawled away in the opposite direction. Smooth turf! Fallen stones! Ah! I was away this time. And this time, as I looked up, slowly and fearfully, again I saw the sea-wall barring my way.
With that, I’m not ashamed to say that all my control went. For some reason or other — possibly a subconscious fear of disabling myself on the fallen stones — I did not stand up and run. I scurried on all fours, first this way, then that, constantly looking for the escape that would be offered by the broken outline of the landward-wall and as constantly seeing only the high unbroken sea-wall in front of me.
How long that lasted I do not know. I had lost all sense of time. Perhaps I had lost all reason too. All I know is that, in the end, bruised, weary, and utterly worn out, I sat down. I was resigned to my fate. If the wall had to close in upon me, if I had to disappear as the others had done, well, let it be so. I could do no more.
And then, when all hope had gone, even when all desire had gone with it, I heard the sound of crunching stones. This was the end. It came almost as a relief. But, strangely, no stones crushed me. I suffered no entombment, no agony in which I fought for breath. Instead, a bright light suddenly burned on my closed and waiting eyes. What did this final torture mean?
Summoning up all the last dregs of courage that were left in me, I opened my eyes, slowly, wearily, painfully. The light dazzled me. Then, with a queer feeling that I didn’t know whether to shout, or to laugh, or to cry, I realised that I was in the beam from the headlights of a car — headlights that were shining through the entrance-gate, and shining straight on to me. I heard a shout; then another. Seconds later, I was literally carried out of the castle and gently lifted into the car. Someone poured a stiff whisky down my throat. And a blessed unconsciousness came to me.
The next morning I awoke in my own bed. My host, the crofter, was sitting on a chair by the bedside. He must have heard me move, for he stood up and bent over me.
‘You’ll be feeling fine now,’ he said, half in question, half in affirmation.
I looked up at him, my wits slowly recovering.
‘I am glad you came,’ I said, slowly. ‘I was all in, and ready to die. It seemed as though the wall would never let me go.’
‘Praised be the Lord, but we cheated it. The doctor and I. The two of us. No less. For I had not the boldness to be seeking you at Dunross by my own self.’
There was the sound of a car outside.
‘And there’s the doctor, now,’ he cried, striding quickly to the door.
The doctor was middle-aged, keen-eyed, and carrying himself, like an athlete.
‘So here is the young man who doesn’t believe in ghosts,’ he said cheerily, as he came over to my bed. ‘Don’t know that I do myself. Can’t be sure.’
He took my wrist and felt the beating of my pulse.
‘Not bad at all,’ he said. ‘Fine, in fact, for the morning after the night before. Did I say I didn’t believe in ghosts? Or do I? Don’t know. Yet I doubt if I’d go to Dunross by night. Save when called out on duty, of course.’
His eyes were twinkling, and his whole manner was a tonic and restorative.
‘Tell me now,’ he continued, ‘what happened to ye before we picked ye up. And once we were carrying ye to my car, there ye were, sobbing like an unhappy child.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I replied.
‘It helps, man. It helps. Washes away the worries. But what happened to ye?’
Haltingly I told him of the sudden failure of my torch, of the matches that would
not strike, and of the wall always in front of me, always shutting me in.
‘So,’ he said, when I had finished. ‘So that is the way of it. I’ve often wondered what those dead MacLeods did to their evening visitors. But man, I suspect ye were just crawling in circles. ’Tis easy enough. And easier still when terror gets hold of ye. Have ye ever tried to find the door of a room, in the black-out, when the bombs started dropping down?’
‘But my torch!’ I cried. ‘My matches!’
‘Do ye put spent matches back into the box, tidy-like, instead of throwing them away?’ he asked.
Here was a thought that sobered me. But it was impossible.
‘Yes,’ I admitted, grudgingly. ‘But only occasionally. There could not possibly be more than two or three spent matches in the box at any time. And even if all the matches were spent ones — and I’m convinced they were not — what of my torch? Why did that fail, too?’
‘Let me look at it,’ he said.
‘It will be in the pocket of my oilskin,’ I replied, raising myself up and looking around the room. ‘There, on the peg by the door.’
He walked over to my oilskin and took out the torch. He pressed the switch, and at once the torch shone bright and clear.
For a moment or two he hummed a tune to himself. He tried the torch a second time; and once more it lit at his touch.
‘So,’ he said again. ‘Yet I’ve known the horn on my car fail to sound one day and sound like the last trump on the day following.’
Again he hummed his tune as he played with my torch in his hand. Then the movement of his hand slackened. The humming ceased. He dropped the torch on a chair and turned to me. And this time there was a different look in his eyes.
Dark Encounters: Ghost Stories Page 1