Dark Encounters: Ghost Stories
Page 2
‘Man, but I’m afraid,’ he said, slowly. ‘We’ve been playing with explanations because we feared the circumstance. Did I say I would not go to Dunross by night? I doubt I shall not be going to Dunross by day, either. To be frank with ye, I dare not go. I dare not go, lest I should find there an answer that is no answer — lest I should find a cluster of live matches lying there, at the foot of the wall.’
RETURN AT DUSK
‘YES,’ I heard Drummond saying with emphasis, ‘for the rest of my life I shall endeavour to avoid looking into a mirror at twilight.’
For a moment there was dead silence in the Common Room. We were all gazing at Drummond with surprise. That our Professor of Anthropology should be afraid of looking into a mirror at twilight seemed too absurd to be believed. And I well remember my own confused medley of thoughts in which I found myself trying to reconcile Drummond (tall, broad-shouldered, and of noted physical courage) with a mirror and some strange masculine version of the Lady of Shalott.
Drummond must have noticed the silence. He turned round, apologetically. ‘But it’s true.’ he continued, in a quieter voice, and this time speaking to all of us. ‘A mirror at twilight worries me. I never know what I may see in it.’
‘Something to do with Black Magic and your African adventures?’ asked MacEwen, peering over his spectacles with excited eyes, and hoping for another of the astonishing (but well vouched-for) adventures which Drummond had experienced in his African field-work.
‘No,’ came the unexpected answer. ‘Something to do with history and with a place only about a hundred miles distant from this room.’
MacEwen leaned back, disappointed. But the rest of us leaned forward.
‘Out with it,’ ordered Forrester, bluntly. ‘You’ve said both too much and too little to escape saying more.’
‘Well, here it is then,’ answered Drummond, ‘though for reasons which you will soon appreciate you must forgive me if I change the names of persons and places.’
As you know, I was in Africa when the war broke out. The news, when it reached me, was about a fortnight old, and I promptly trekked south to join the nearest regiment I could find. It seemed the simplest thing to do. But I might just as well have made for the coast and a boat home, for, within a week of becoming a private in the South African Rifles, I was suddenly summoned to Headquarters and there told to pack my traps forthwith. Apparently some anxious G.S.O. in the War Office had sent out a ‘Search all Africa’ order, with the rider that as soon as I had been found I was to be returned to London with all possible speed.
Well, to cut a long story short, I was flown to Cairo and two days later I was reporting to that selfsame anxious G.S.O. in his own doubly-guarded room in Whitehall. It was simply the old 1914–18 game once more. I was to take charge of one of the special sections devoted to counter-espionage.
But don’t jump to conclusions. What I am going to tell you has nothing to do with enemy agents. All this is simply to explain how, for some six months in the winter of 1939–40, a small group of us came to be located in such an out-of-the-way place as Cairntoul Castle in Mar. We were sent there by the War Office, that’s all. Probably Cairntoul had been chosen because of the sheer unlikeliness of the choice; and certainly all the arrangements must have been made long before Hitler marched into Poland. The castle might be out-of-the-way, but, when we arrived there to take over, we found we were very much in touch with London and with the other sections doing similar work, and I need hardly say that our powerful transmitting and receiving set, with its aerial cunningly concealed in the old dovecot, was not installed overnight.
In addition to our two wireless engineers, two batmen-clerks (working in that dual capaclty), and one cook, there were eight of us in the section. But the unlucky number thirteen was avoided by the presence of Mrs Lumsdaine, the old caretaker or retainer — probably an octogenarian — whom the War Office had taken over with the castle, though not, I expect, without full investigation into her character and into the characters of her forbears back to the ninth generation or more. The old lady was certainly sound enough, but whoever had had the task of taking over the castle must have found her a handful. Yet ‘Mother Lum’ (as we called her) kept pretty much out of our way. I could feel that she resented our intrusion into ‘her’ castle. To get more than two words out of her was like drawing water from a stone; but to get a cold searching look whenever our ways met was as common as porridge for breakfast on a Highland croft.
Actually, as I was to discover later, the old lady’s attachment to Cairntoul was simply part of that old loyalty so characteristic of the Highlands. We were aliens, but she had been born into the service of the castle, just as her parents and their parents before them had been born into the same service and had served and died there. In earlier days, indeed, the castle must often have seen such loyal lifelong service, and, earlier still, service of a different kind when loyalty to the House probably meant dying in its defence, and dying long before the attainment of old age. The very stones emphasized that. The place was more than a castle, it was a ‘strength’. Its massive structure was built in the shape of an L with the doorway in the re-entrant angle where it could be effectively defended from both wings. The old outer wooden door had been replaced by a modern one, but the inner ‘iron yett’ was still there. I can tell you, I wouldn’t have liked the task of breaking in, for, even when the iron yett had been won, there was what we should now call a ‘baffle-wall’ which put the defenders in the shadow, darkened the whole entrance, and made it impossible for more than one man at a time to gain the staircase which wound upwards immediately behind the wall. Again, the staircase itself was narrow — about thirty inches wide, I should say — and, being helical, was lit only at odd intervals, so that again the defenders could choose the shadows to contest its passage. And only by that staircase could one get into the castle at all. The stone stairs, worn with age, led direct to the first floor, to a corner of the ‘Hall’ — a long room, fully thirty-five feet long, and probably fifteen feet wide — with another staircase at its further end leading down again to the ground floor and to the vaulted kitchens below that. In the chamber, in the shorter wing, adjoining the Hall, a newel staircase led to the second floor. Thus the main staircase had to be fought for and won, step by step, before the castle itself could be won. Altogether a thoroughly interesting old place, and one ideal for security, ancient or modern.
The ground floor and the vaulted kitchens were wholly given over to the signallers, the two batmen-clerks, and the cook; though Mother Lum had kept her own room on the ground floor, in the wing. The big Hall was our general workroom (with an overflow into the adjoining chamber), and our sleeping-quarters were upstairs on the second floor where, in the main wing, all the rooms led out of one another. In the shorter wing, however, there was one room only, larger than the rest, which had a second door leading outside to a kind of beacon-turret.
That room in the wing, called the Turret Room, was at first mine; and being one who likes to know what there may be behind doors, or where doors may lead to, I had opened the second door almost as soon as I had crossed the threshold of the room. But the turret outside was empty (save for a dead bird), and, being corbelled, it was clearly impossible for anyone to reach it from the ground below, whilst even if the impossible were achieved, an iron grille which completely enclosed the turret-top would effectively prevent the climber from entering the turret and so gaining access to the room.
All these ancient precautions, as I have said, were ideal for security; and, to remain inconspicuous, we had no sentry or armed guard of any kind. Nevertheless our signallers had fixed an electric contact to the iron yett (which it was our practice to keep shut), and a whole battery of bells rang throughout the building whenever that gate was opened. In addition, a further press-bell was hidden in the darkness of the baffle-wall and, on this, whenever any one of us had entered by the iron yett he gave a series of rings (the number being changed each day) so that the whole battery
of bells again informed us that only one of our own number was entering our strength.
For a month or so after our arrival at Cairntoul we were kept busy for a good sixteen hours out of every twenty-four. As a team we worked well together; and although nominally I was in charge, our work was essentially co-operative. I need not add that that first spell of intensive work was not without its reward.
Then came two or three slightly less busy days, and for the first time I was able to arrange for each of us, singly, to get out on to the moors to stretch his legs or, if he liked, to laze in the yielding heather.
My own turn came last, and for a whole afternoon I lay deep in the heather, dozing, and drawing in physical and mental rest. Returning to Cairntoul, in the gathering twilight, I passed a few words with the others, who were busy in the Hall, before climbing the further flight of stairs to my Turret Room. I was still in a happy mood of complete content, and, once in my room, I sat down on a chair, letting my mind absorb the quietness which seemed to be all around, bringing with it an air of peace so different from the work which we had just been doing and had still to do.
I had sat down on the chair in front of the table which served as a dressing-chest and over which an old mirror was hanging on the wall. Behind me was the door leading to the beacon-turret. Now what made me look up into the mirror, I cannot say. But look up I did, and, as I looked into the mirror, I saw that the door to the turret was slowly opening. I watched that opening door like one fascinated, and, somehow, I could neither move nor cry out. Slowly the opening grew wider and wider. Then a face appeared, peering round the side of the door. In the mirror, the face seemed to look straight into mine, but in the twilight I could recognize no features — just the blur of a face, that, and no more. Then the face withdrew, and the door began to close again, as slowly and as quietly as it had opened. It shut (though I could swear I heard no click of the latch), and, as soon as it had shut, the sense of powerlessness immediately left me. I felt suddenly and strangely released and, jumping up, I rushed towards the door. But, half-way, I stopped. Surely I had imagined it all. Probably my nerves had become too tightly stretched with that recent spell of intensive work. After all, one could dream by day as well as by night. Still, I’d better look into that beacon-turret, if only to satisfy myself. I took the few remaining steps, paused, and then quickly flung open the door. Nothing! This time not even a dead bird, for I had previously removed the one that had been there on my first arrival.
Wisely, or unwisely, I said nothing about my ‘visitor’. But exactly ten days later, when the whole incident was beginning to fade from my mind, I was rudely brought back to reality, or unreality, and again at twilight. Again I was sitting in front of my dressing-chest, and this time I was certainly not dreaming. Actually I was brushing my hair before dinner, my mind alive and alert with the details of a pretty problem that had cropped up during the course of the day’s work. And, in the midst of that simple operation of brushing my hair, my hands suddenly dropped. With a start, I had noticed in the mirror that the door to the beacon-turret was again opening, and opening as slowly and as quietly as it had opened before. Again an inquiring head peered round the side of the door. But this time it did not withdraw. The door opened wider and wider. The head was followed by a body. There was a quick movement, and my ‘visitor’ had entered the room: and I remember noting that the door seemed to swing-to and shut by itself.
Now, don’t ask me what my ‘visitor’ looked like. I simply don’t know. Partly the twilight was deepening into dusk, so that the light was poor; but mainly I seemed impelled to look only at the face which was reflected in my mirror. And that face, or perhaps I should say the eyes, held me as though I had been hypnotized. Never had I seen such concentrated hate before, and I hope I shall never see it again. As I have said, I seemed to be hypnotized, or, if you prefer it that way, I felt transfixed and powerless, just as I had felt before. Slowly, very slowly, almost as though I was to be taken by surprise, ‘it’ began to cross the intervening space, the eyes holding mine. That slow, deliberate closing-in was horrible. I was the victim of all the evil in the world which was now closing in for the kill. And I could do nothing. I felt a peculiar ‘bristling’ at the back of my neck — and I can assure you that ‘hair-raising’ is a phrase which is used too lightly and too often. It is not a pleasant sensation. Although I had been in many tight corners in my life, I think I may say that never before had I been terrified. But I was then. Unable to move, or even to cry out, my mind raced round and round the one question: what will it do when it reaches me? Probably everything took place in a matter of seconds, but to me the torment was protracted beyond the limits of endurance. Slowly that face approached behind me. Larger and larger in the mirror grew those awful eyes. Now I became convinced I could feel its breath upon me. A pair of hands seemed to reach out and close upon my neck. And . . . and all went black.
I am told that when I was abominably late for dinner, one of the others came up from the Hall to remind me of the time. He knocked on the door of my room and, receiving no answer, looked in. Thereafter, for a brief space there was some bustle and confusion in Cairntoul. But, as it was, it simply transpired that for the first time in my life I had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.
When at last they had brought me round I made some kind of feeble excuse — overwork or liver, or perhaps a combination of the two. I suppose I felt too ashamed to confess that I had fainted before a ghost. For, ponder over it as I could, no other explanation seemed possible. No alarm bell had rung; no one could reach that beacon-turret from the ground; and, above all, there was the iron grille. I remember spending that night sitting and dozing in front of the fire in the Hall, unwilling to return to my room. By morning I had ashamedly come to the conclusion that I couldn’t face that room again.
As good luck would have it, however, that very morning brought the possibility of change. Just before lunch a coded message came through calling away one of my team on an urgent, but fortunately lengthy, task in Holland. It was a bit of a rush to get his papers ready and to get him to Aberdeen in time for the London express. But it took my mind from my visitor; also, and more important so far as I was concerned, it freed a room. Taking one of the batmen-clerks with me, I moved all my possessions into that providentially-provided spare room — making an excuse about an appalling draught that came from the beacon-turret.
What my team thought or guessed about my change of rooms, I do not know. But a chance meeting with Mother Lum a few days later seemed to reveal that there was a ‘history’ to Cairntoul not unconnected with the turret and with the Turret Room. Answering my ‘Good morning’ with an ‘Aye, it’s no a bad day,’ followed by a keen look from her grey eyes, the old body paused as though about to say more. That was unusual, and I waited expectantly. Then apparently she changed her mind, and with the tantalizing remark: ‘I’m hearing Black Dougal will be back then,’ she went on her way. Who ‘Black Dougal’ was, she left to my imagination, and I knew it would be useless to question her. Doubtless she regarded ‘Black Dougal’ as her own — like Cairntoul itself — and, if he were a ghost, then she was unwilling to share her ghost with other intruders who were of the solid flesh. Not unnaturally I connected him with my visitor; and, from the way Mother Lum had spoken, I gathered that to the initiated he was by no means unknown.
For a week or two nothing disturbed the even tenor of our way. Then, unexpectedly, came a message from the War Office to say that a Mr Mowat was on his way to fill the vacancy in my team. And at once the problem arose: where should we sleep him? If I were to suggest his sharing a room with one of the others when my old room stood empty, then perforce I would have to tell my tale. In the end I decided to stick to the old excuse: the Turret Room was a poor room, frightfully draughty, with a ‘howl’ from the outside grille whenever the wind blew in a certain direction, and so forth and so on.
But I had reckoned without our new recruit. When he arrived, alert and confident, nothing I could say would
persuade him to ‘double-up’ with one of the others. There was an empty room. He had slept in far worse places than a room with a draught and a howl. He was insistent. I was halting. And, in the presence of the others, pride kept me from telling the truth.
Mowat went up to the empty room, while I made a mental reservation that I would tell him about my ‘visitor’ as soon as I could get him alone. But although, later, I was to see him alone more than once, by then my story had paled before his own experience.
He had arrived late in the afternoon, and again it was twilight. Stupidly, I had been so intent on persuading him not to take over the Turret Room that I had failed to connect both time and place. And only when there came a strangled cry from above, did I curse myself for forgetting that upon both occasions my ‘visitor’ had come with the dusk.
We raced to the stair and to the Room. Bursting open the door, we found Mowat lying on the floor in front of the table, almost exactly as I had been found in my ‘faint’. He was lying on his back, with his arms spread-eagled; but it was his face that caused us to cry out. Even in the dim light we could see that it was suffused with blood, while his eyes seemed to be sightlessly staring at us with a look in which agony and terror were horribly combined.
Sanderson, who had taken a medical degree, and who was our ‘doctor’, was quickly on his knees and moving professional hands over that still body.
Mercifully, Mowat was not dead, and that same night we got him into a nursing-home in Aberdeen. But it was a full three months before he was out again, when, upon my own urgent recommendation, he was posted to Southampton and given the task of coping with the many problems raised by officers coming on leave or returning overseas. I had to think of some post where he would be kept too busy to remember Cairntoul; and the R.T.O.’s office at Southampton had always seemed to me to be about the busiest of its kind.