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Dark Encounters: Ghost Stories

Page 10

by William Croft Dickinson


  But I had to make no excuse.

  My self-appointed guide led me across the castle-green and up to the ruined eastern range. There, as soon as we had reached the wall, he began to describe in vivid detail the French bombardment which, in July 1547, had brought a year-long siege to an end. At times his broad Scots was beyond me, but somehow that seemed to make no difference. So graphic was his account, as he stood beside me, with his arm outstretched and his finger pointing into space, that a block-house rose up and took shape before my eyes. I sensed, rather than heard, the noise of the guns; and I saw the building slowly crumbling beneath their battery. I could even see men falling and dying as their strongpoint collapsed around them.

  Suddenly his story came to an abrupt end. He turned and left me, and, as I watched him walking slowly across the castle-close, the shadows seemed to fold around him. He entered the dark places, he was lost in them, and he never reappeared.

  For a moment, I felt as though I had awakened from some strange and uncanny dream. I looked again over the eastern wall. No longer did I see a block-house crumbling beneath the battery of cannons royal. Before me was only the empty space of night, while, in the near distance, I glimpsed the tall broken gables of the cathedral church.

  A vague sense of wonder gave way to fear. How could it have been a dream when I had been wide-awake all the time? What had happened to me? Who had stood beside me and shown me a building that was no longer there? My fear increased. An impelling urge to escape took hold of me. I must get out! But how could I pass through that forbidding blackness of the pend? What hand would reach out to hold me back?

  Bracing myself, I ran; ran as fast as I could, speeding through the pend, up the slope of the path, and out into the safety of the street. There, for a minute or two, I clutched the railings with both hands. I had no body; only my two hands that were clutching the iron railings and a heart that pounded violently.

  Yet, quickly, I recovered. I began to damn myself. I was an idiot, a coward, a craven fool. Leaving the friendly railings, I walked slowly down the street, though my mind still raced with disturbing thoughts. As I neared Butts Wynd, the clocks began to strike. I looked at my watch. It said ten o’clock. Incredulous, I counted the strokes that rang through the night. Ten o’clock. Had time stood still while a ghostly guide had taken me four centuries back in time? I had looked at my watch when he first spoke to me only five minutes ago. Yet he had spoken to me for perhaps ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour. And definitely a full five minutes had elapsed since I ran in panic from the castle-close.

  Perplexed and disturbed, I turned into the narrow wynd. So, trying vainly to find reason in something that was beyond all reasoning, I began to wander through the streets of the town — down North Street, up Market Street, down South Street, and on to the West Port. There, just as I had passed through the narrow archway of the Port, someone suddenly gripped me by the arm. I looked up, with a start. It was my old friend, James Davidson, who was then still in office as H.M. Chief Inspector of Ancient Monuments.

  ‘Whither away with fast shut eyes?’ he cried.

  I do not remember what answer I gave; but he looked more sharply at me, and drew me closer to him.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, man?’ he asked. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I have,’ I replied, ‘in the castle-close.’

  ‘A likely enough place,’ he said, gravely.

  ‘But, Jamie, this one spoke to me. Told me how the east block-house had been battered to bits by the French guns, and pointed it out to me as the guns were smashing it down. I tell you I saw that block-house with my own eyes, saw it gradually crumbling away, and saw the men falling and dying. And all the while time stood still.’

  ‘Steady, old man. Time doesn’t stand still. When did this happen? Just now?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘At five minutes to ten.’

  I felt his hold tighten on my arm.

  ‘You say you met your ghost at five minutes to ten?’

  ‘Yes,’ I persisted. ‘I looked at my watch.’

  ‘Good God!’ I heard him mutter.

  ‘Why? What?’ I demanded, quickly.

  ‘The old custodian of the castle once told me exactly what the eastern block-house looked like, and where it had stood,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘But what has that to do with it?’

  He paid no attention to my question, but went on, as though talking to himself. ‘And when I asked him how he could possibly know, he just looked at me in a queer sort of way and said: “I can’t tell you, sir. But sometimes, if I stand on the eastern range when night is falling, I have a feeling I’ve been there before — long, long ago.”

  I grew impatient.

  ‘But this wasn’t your custodian, Jamie. It was a ghost, I tell you. A ghost that came out of the shadows and returned to the shadows again. The ghost of a man-at-arms who’d taken part in the siege of 1547.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘But it was my custodian all the same. I’ve just come from the old man’s house. He died at five minutes to ten.’

  THE WITCH’S BONE

  MICHAEL ELLIOTT, M.A., LL.D., F.S.A. (SCOT.), frowned at the letter which had come from the Honorary Curator of the local Museum. It was quite a short letter and quite a simple one: merely asking him if he would allow the Museum to borrow his ‘Witch’s Bone’ for a special exhibition covering Folk Beliefs and Customs. But Michael Elliott found the letter far from welcome. Short and simple as it was, it revived and increased all the fearful troubles of his mind. More than that, dare he now let the ‘Bone’ pass out of his own keeping — even if only for a little while?

  Every day, for the last week, that witch’s bone had preoccupied his mind to the exclusion of all else. The witch’s bone that had brought to an end all his quarrels with Mackenzie Grant. The witch’s bone that had possibly given him a revenge far more terrible than anything he had sought or expected. In a fit of anger he had thought only of testing its efficacy, never really believing it would work. And now he knew that the bone had worked only too well. Or had it? Had he indeed compassed Grant’s death? All he knew was that Grant had died and that now he found it hard to recover his peace of mind.

  Of course, he had only himself to blame. He had shown the bone at the last meeting of their local Antiquarian Society, just after he had acquired it; and, pleased with himself, he had expatiated upon its awful power. Mackenzie Grant had contradicted him — as usual. Grant had always treated his theories with contempt. There was his paper on lake-dwellings, and, after that, his paper on the iron-age forts in the Central Highlands. Upon both occasions Grant had stood up and pooh-poohed everything he had said. At meetings of the Council, too, the man could be relied upon to speak against anything he proposed. But all that was past history. Grant had poured scorn upon his story of the bone. And now Grant was dead. Yet how unbounded would be the relief to his tortured mind if Grant had been right, and if the story of the bone were ‘stuff and nonsense’ and nothing more. The very night that Grant had ridiculed his story he had put the bone to the test, directing its malevolent powers against Mackenzie Grant. And Grant had died a horrible death a few hours later. But could it not have been a ghastly coincidence in which the bone had played no part at all?

  It was only a short piece of bone — probably sheep-bone — about six inches long, with a narrow ring of black bog-oak tightly encircling it near its centre. He had acquired it during his recent holiday in Sutherland. An old woman had died in a remote glen, and, because she had been reputed to be a witch, and had been feared as such, no one would bear her to burial. The local minister had called upon him, beseeching his help. ‘The poor body was no witch at all,’ the minister had said. ‘She was just old and ill-favoured. I have had a coffin made of about the right size — at any rate it will be large enough — and if you could just drive me to the old body’s hut, with the coffin in the rear of your estate-wagon, maybe we could manage to coffin her and give her a Christian burial.’<
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  A strange request to make of any man! But the minister had won him over, and his reward had been the witch’s bone.

  They had found it on a shelf in the old woman’s hut. The minister had seen it first, and had prodded it gently with his finger. ‘So,’ he had said softly. ‘The witch’s bone. I have been told of it. There are those of my people who say that she would utter her curse upon some man or woman, and then would make a wax figure and stick a pin into it. Then they say that if this bone rattled on its shelf, she knew that her curse had taken effect and that the person portrayed in the wax would be seized with pains in that part of the body which corresponded with the place of the pin in the wax. Some have even said that she could kill by sticking her pin in the heart or the head. For the power is in the bone. It can wound or kill any who are cursed by its possessor. And never are they spared.’

  He had listened and looked with astonishment until, suddenly, the minister’s face had changed and he had cried out: ‘But what am I saying to you? There is no Witch of Endor in Sutherland. Indeed there is not. No such devilry is possible. I am not believing one word of it.’ And the minister had boldly picked up the bone and had offered it to him. ‘Take it with you,’ he had said. ‘It may interest some of your friends in the south.’ And, wondering, he had taken it.

  Yes; it had interested some of his friends. But Mackenzie Grant had laughed at him. ‘A witch’s bone!’ he had said, contemptuously. ‘Stuff and nonsense. Anyone can see by just looking at it that it’s a handle, and nothing more. That ring round its centre simply means that, when it is grasped, two fingers go on one side of the ring, and two fingers on the other. Any boy, flying a kite, grasps a piece of wood in exactly the same way at the end of his string. A witch’s bone, indeed. I believe, Elliott, I could persuade you that a handkerchief with a hole in it is a witch’s veil to be worn at meetings of her coven. And the hole, of course, would be symbolic, indicative of her lapse from the Christian faith.’ And so the man had gone on. Laughing at him before his friends.

  He had kept down the anger which had surged within him; but, when he had returned home, and had taken the bone from his pocket, all his pent-up feelings had broken their bounds. He had marched straight into his study and, placing the bone upon a bookshelf near the fireplace, had resolved to prove its power to hurt. Aloud and deliberately he had cursed Mackenzie Grant; but, searching for sealing-wax, could find none. Then he had recalled the photograph of Mackenzie Grant in a recent volume of the Transactions of their Society. He had recalled, too, his aversion to destroying any photograph. To tear up a photograph had always seemed to him to be akin to tearing the living flesh and bones. So much the better. Mackenzie Grant should be torn asunder with a vengeance.

  He had ripped the full-page photograph from the book and had deliberately torn it to pieces. In the fury of his task he had, for the moment, forgotten the bone. But, as the torn pieces had multiplied between his hands, suddenly there had come a rattling sound from the nearby shelf. And, at that, his heart had turned to ice. Fearfully he had looked at the bone; but it lay exactly where he had placed it, and it lay inert and still. He remembered assuring himself that he had simply imagined that rattle. He was overwrought. Yes, it was imagination and nothing more.

  Yet, the next morning, when reading the Scotsman at breakfast-time, again a chill had struck his heart and his whole body had numbed with fear. For the paper announced with regret that a distinguished antiquary, Mr Mackenzie Grant, had been killed in a road accident. According to the announcement, Mr Grant, when driving home about midnight, after having dined with a friend, had unaccountably run head-on into a heavy lorry that had stopped for some minor adjustment on the opposite side of the road. It was a bad accident. Grant’s car had been completely telescoped. But, in the opinion of the doctors, he must have been killed instantaneously, for their examination showed that he had suffered multiple injuries and that practically every bone in his body was broken.

  No wonder his mind was ill at ease. He had striven to persuade himself that it was pure coincidence. That those multiple injuries had naught to do with a photograph torn into many shreds. He had laboured to free himself from a haunting burden of guilt. Yet the torturing thought was still there. Had the bone indeed the power of killing those who were cursed by its possessor?

  Since then he had locked it up in his coin-cabinet. He had even been afraid to open the cabinet to make certain it was still there. And now the Museum had asked to be allowed to borrow it, to put it on display. To say he had lost it, or had destroyed it, would be childish. Yet dare he lend it? Dare he allow it to pass out of his own keeping?

  These were but some of the thoughts that troubled the mind of Dr Michael Elliott as he sat with a letter that lay before him on his desk.

  About nine o’clock in the evening of the same day, when Sir Stephen Rowandson, C.I.E., the Honorary Curator of the Museum, was deep in a detective story, his housekeeper knocked on his study door and announced: ‘Dr Michael Elliott.’

  Somewhat surprised, Rowandson put down his book and rose to greet his visitor.

  ‘Come in, Elliott. Come in. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  Michael Elliot entered the room slowly and hesitantly.

  ‘Man, but you do look tired,’ continued Rowandson, as Elliott came into the light. ‘It’s these cold nights. Take that chair by the fire and warm yourself I’ll get you a whisky.’

  Elliott took the proffered chair and, sank down in it. If, indeed, he was looking tired, he knew full well that it was not due to the coldness of the night.

  ‘I’ve called about your letter, asking for the loan of my witch’s bone,’ he said, turning to his host and gratefully accepting the whisky which had been poured out for him. ‘I thought I’d sooner bring it to you personally at your home, rather than give it to you, or leave it for you, at the Museum.’

  ‘Why, certainly,’ replied Rowandson, concealing his surprise. ‘You think I might possibly leave it lying about in the Museum, and it might fall into the wrong hands?’

  Rowandson spoke with a smile. But Elliott coloured slightly.

  ‘You have guessed correctly. It may be more dangerous than we know.’

  Rowandson looked more closely at his visitor. Did Elliott really believe that this bit of bone could exert occult force? He had been one of those standing by when Mackenzie Grant had poured scorn upon it; and although he had not heard Elliott’s account of its supposed malignant power, he knew full well that the man was apt to be too credulous. But perhaps he had better humour him.

  ‘You are right,’ he conceded, gravely. ‘I have seen some strange things myself in India. We must be careful. Would it make you happier if I promised that when I do put it on display I will put it in a locked case?’

  Elliott’s relief was too apparent to be disguised.

  ‘I was hoping for something like that,’ he said, taking the bone from his breast pocket. ‘It is good of you to go to so much trouble; but I should feel reassured if it was under lock and key.’

  ‘You can rely on me,’ returned Rowandson. ‘I will keep it safely here, in the house, until I have a locked case ready for it. And I will tell no one it is here.’

  Once more Elliott’s relief was so obvious that Rowandson, taking the bone from him, ostentatiously looked around his study for a safe keeping-place. Not finding one, he placed the bone on his desk. ‘I’ll find a safe place for it later,’ he assured Elliott. ‘You can rely on me. And I will certainly keep it here until I take it personally to the Museum and myself place it in a display case that can be securely locked!

  Thereafter, for some ten minutes or so, Sir Stephen Rowandson strove in vain to find some topic of conversation which would interest his visitor. But Elliott answered only in monosyllables, while his eyes constantly strayed to the witch’s bone lying on the Curator’s desk, and his only thought was whether he should warn Rowandson of its dangerous power, or whether that would merely make him look foolish and at the same time make Rowandso
n less responsive and also more careless.

  ‘Well,’ said Rowandson, as he wearied of his task. ‘I mustn’t keep you too late. And don’t worry about your bone. It will be quite safe.’

  Elliott rose heavily to his feet. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to be so fussy, but, you know, I do believe it may be a witch’s bone and not, as . . . as . . . Mackenzie Grant maintained, simply a handle of some kind.’

  The last words had come out with difficulty, and Rowandson thought he understood.

  ‘Yes, poor fellow. We shall miss his sceptical comments. We were all his victims at one time or another!

  Elliott winced. Again his eyes strayed to the witch’s bone.

  ‘You won’t leave it there, will you?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no,’ replied Rowandson, quickly. ‘I’ll find a safe place for it all right.’

  Seemingly reassured, Elliott moved towards the door of the room. Rowandson opened it and, conducting his visitor through the hall, let him out of the house. For a minute or two he watched the retreating figure. ‘There goes one of the most distinguished classical scholars in Europe,’ he said to himself, ‘and yet with more antiquarian bees in his bonnet than any man I know. A witch’s bone, indeed. It may be. But, even so, what harm can it do to anyone?’

  He returned to his study and, picking up the bone from his desk, examined it under the reading-lamp. But his examination made him no wiser.

  ‘Well, well. Old Elliott was certainly mighty concerned about it, and I’d better do what I said. But where shall I put the wretched thing? I haven’t a safe, and there isn’t a drawer in the whole house that would defeat a ten-year-old.’

 

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