Gaslit Horror

by Lamb, Hugh; Hearn, Lafcadio ; Capes, Bernard

“‘Well,’ went on the rector, looking down at the ground, ‘the reason I mention it is that Mrs. Rennard declares that she last night saw this old woman, who is said to walk the house with a lighted candle in her hand; and I will tell you in strict confidence that it is this that has helped to make her so much worse.’

  “‘Indeed, sir,’ I replied, ‘I am very sorry to hear what you say, but no doubt Mrs. Rennard’s health accounts for the delusion.’

  “‘Exactly, William; exactly what I think and believe; but the doctor insists on the necessity of taking her away at once, and so, as I have said, we start tomorrow. Now there is another thing I wish to ask you, and that is, if you will mind sleeping at the rectory during our absence, just as a kind of guard against burglary or anything of that sort. You will be about the grounds pretty often during the day, and if you do not mind sleeping in the house at night, we shall leave home more comfortably, for I know everything will be safe in your care. What do you say, William; do you mind?’

  “‘Not in the least, sir,’ I replied, ‘if it will make you and Mrs. Rennard more satisfied.’

  “‘Thank you,’ said the rector. ‘That is a great relief to me. You will, of course, have the free run of the place and come and go as you please. Good morning, William, I must be off.’ And with that he left me and went towards the door which leads from the rectory garden to the churchyard. On reaching the door he turned, with his hand upon the latch, and said, laughing:

  “‘Remember, William, no tales of ghosts when we return.’

  “‘Aye, aye, sir,’ I replied, and then fell to my work again; but I could not help thinking that the rector’s laugh was of a forced kind, and my mind went back to what he had just told me concerning Mrs. Rennard.

  “Also I thought of what the late rector had told me with regard to the same woman with the candle. But I persuaded myself that in both cases weakened nerves, the result of continued bad health, were responsible for the hallucination.

  “On the following day I saw them drive off to the station which, as you know, is some five miles distant. The rector and children were in good spirits, but Mrs. Rennard looked old and broken, and I fancied that, as the carriage moved off, she shuddered on looking back quickly at the house. When they were out of sight I walked slowly back to my work in the garden.

  “I was a young man in those days, sir, and not over troubled with nerves; still, when night came on and I found myself sitting alone in the rectory kitchen, I couldn’t help my mind running on the mystery of poor Miss Howard’s sudden disappearance and also on the creature who was said to haunt the house. However, I did my best to put these thoughts away from me, and even started a song (for I was a bit of a singer in those days); but my voice sounded so unnatural and hollow in the silence, that I was quiet again ere I had sung one verse; and after trying in vain to give my attention to reading, I rose as the church clock struck nine, and went upstairs to bed.

  “The room I occupied was one of the upper row overlooking the churchyard, and was that which, as you may perhaps have noticed, has a shutter hanging loosely by a single hinge. I was a heavy sleeper, and little troubled by dreams, so that I soon fell into a heavy slumber, from which I awoke to find the sun streaming brightly into the room. Then I laughed at the idea of ghosts and springing out of bed, threw open the lattice, and took deep draughts of the pure morning air.

  “Villagers who knew where I had passed the night, questioned me, with solemn faces, as to whether I had seen anything; but I returned one answer to them all, namely—that ghosts only show themselves to those who believe in them. And so the second night came on.

  “Having had a heavy day, I retired to rest earlier than on the previous night, and hardly had my head touched the pillow before I fell into a deep sleep.

  “How long I slept I cannot tell, but suddenly I awoke to find myself in utter darkness. I have heard it said that the sound of a footstep at dead of night, will, in some mysterious way, penetrate to the brain of the deepest sleeper, and cause sudden wakefulness, where a louder but more usual noise, such as the howling of the wind, will but lull him into heavier slumber. Whether it was so in my case, or whether what I had been told had so impressed itself on my brain as to make me dream of a footstep, I cannot say; but certain it is that I now found myself lying wide awake, listening with an intensity that was almost overpowering, to the sound of a stealthy tread in the passage outside my room. It was a halting step, as of one who was lame, and by the flap on the stone floor, I knew the feet were bare.

  “The sound came nearer and nearer, and then I remembered, with sudden fright, that the door was not fastened. I could not move, but lay stark still, and listened.

  “Presently the halting tread ceased, and the latch of my door clicked. A moment later the door was opened, and then such a sight met my horrified gaze as to think of, even after all these years, makes my blood run cold.”

  Here the sexton passed his hand over his brow, on which a cold sweat was plainly to be seen. After a short time he thus continued:

  “As I was saying, the door slowly opened, and there appeared a bare and shrivelled arm, and in the hand a lighted candle. I could not move; a cold sweat broke out upon me, and although I tried to shout, all utterance was frozen on my lips. But if the candle-bearing hand and arm were terrible, a thousand times more so was the figure belonging to them, which now came slowly into the room. It was that of a woman, well advanced in years, whose haggard face and wild, staring eyes were now turned full upon me. Grizzled hair hung about a face of such diabolical ugliness as is impossible to describe in words.

  “Her lips were parted in a horrid grin, exposing to view flaccid gums, studded with broken stumps of teeth; a loose, flowing garment of some ancient make was thrown about her shoulders, and reached to the ground; and at every step she went down on one side, as one afflicted with a shortened limb or stiffened knee-joint. Thus she came slowly towards me, her mouth twitching horribly the while. When within a few feet of my bed, she raised her left hand and beckoned to me as if to follow. But I could neither move nor speak, and my eyes felt as though they must roll from their sockets, so intense and fixed was my horrified gaze.

  “Closer and closer she came, step by step, until with one frantic effort, born of the fear that she would touch me, my voice rushed from my lips, and I gave one loud, piercing scream.

  “She stopped, and, regarding me with a look that I could pray might be blotted out from my memory for ever, again beckoned with her left hand, turning her body partly round as she did so, but still keeping her ghastly face towards me.

  “Unable to resist the power of those wild, drawing eyes, I rose straightaway from my bed and followed her as one bereft of his senses. Perceiving this, she turned round and led the way from the room, ever and anon casting a hideous glance at me over her shoulder.

  “Along the silent passages we passed; down the broad creaking stairs, and so out into the dark still night.

  “I was as powerless as a child, and if, at any moment, a thought of turning back shot through my brain, one sight of that twitching face cast back upon its shoulder was sufficient to make me follow as though I were drawn along by some great mesmeric force.

  “Across the rectory lawn she led the way—under the great yew trees, which looked like weird funeral plumes in their inky blackness. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees, and not a star relieved the frowning, clouded sky.

  “So on and on we went, until we came to the little wood which stands upon the verge of one of the oldest slate pits. Skirting this wood, the old hag led the way to the further end of the pit, where the deep water may be approached, even to its very brink. There she stopped, and beckoned to me with her bony hand to come to her—for I was some yards behind.

  “I had no power but to obey, and so, when I was within a yard of her, she moved on again, leading the way along a narrow and dangerous shelf of rock, which was in some parts under water. Suddenly I saw her stop, and bend down towards a chasm or small cave in the sid
e of the pit, which, from the splash of a stone which fell from near her feet, I knew must contain water. Holding the candle to the opening, she motioned me to look in. At first I would not, but the fury of her face and gestures compelled me at last to do so, and stooping down I beheld, by the glittering light of the candle, a sight that froze me to the spot with horror; for there, lying in the water, which was three feet deep, lay a skeleton, with the face of the skull turned towards me, while round the neck there hung, by a chain, a metal cross, which told me at once whose remains they were I looked upon.

  “I was as one turned to stone—without thought or feeling, or any sense of life; and for some time—I know not how long—I stood there, forgetful of everything, even of the scene before me. Then again, for a second time, I realized that in those bleaching bones beneath the water, I saw all that was left of my first rector’s niece, and of our dear friend of years ago—Miss Howard.

  “The flaring of the candle in its socket broke the spell, and looking quickly round I found the old hag’s horrible face so close to mine that her grizzled locks nearly touched my cheek. That was the final straw to my already cracking nerves, and with a shriek that echoed round and round the pit, I sank down into a deep swoon.

  “When I came to myself the dawn was breaking and I was alone. For some moments I lay dazed, but gradually the horrors of the night came back to me, and turning my head I looked into the cave, hoping, I believe, to find that it was all a dream; but to my horror I saw the skeleton, with the chain about its neck, lying beneath the water. The next moment I rushed wildly from the spot, never stopping until I reached the Hall, where the servants, who were just astir, doubtless took me for a madman.

  “I insisted on seeing Lord Androvil, and presently he came to me in the study, in his dressing gown. To him I told my tale, he listening, I remember, with a pitying look; then, as I rose to go, I fell senseless at his feet.

  “I remember no more until I awoke to consciousness, after a dangerous illness, some weeks later.

  “When I was strong enough to bear it, I learned from Lord Androvil himself how, after bringing me home, he had organized and led a search party to the spot I had indicated; how they there found the skeleton, which was at once identified as Miss Howard’s (for the metal cross bore the significant initials ‘D.L.H.’), and how the remains had been buried in the churchyard, the sexton of a neighbouring village digging the grave.

  “And that, sir,” concluded the sexton, “ends my story of the woman with the candle, and of the one grave I did not dig: and if you are disposed to question it or put it down to a delusion of the senses, I can only point to the fact of the finding of the skeleton and ask you to account for that.”

  “I do not question it for one moment,” I replied, “though it is the strangest tale I have ever listened to. But I would like to ask you one thing. How do you think Miss Howard met her death?”

  The old man bent upon me a most serious look as he replied in a deep and solemn voice:—

  “My only answer to that question, sir, is that I firmly believe Miss Howard was led from her room by the same hideous creature who led me; that she was taken along the same way; and that, coming to the cave, and being beckoned to look in, she saw there something—I cannot tell what—something that caused her to swoon and lose her life by falling into the water.”

  “One more question,” said I. “Are you a believer in ghosts?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the sexton, more solemnly than ever; “I am.”

  Perceval Landon

  Perceval Landon (1869–1927) is one of those authors (lucky or unlucky, depending on your point of view) who is now only remembered for just one story. In his case, the story is a classic, “Thurnley Abbey,” from his 1908 collection Raw Edges, one of the most reprinted tales in the genre.

  But there was more to Landon than ghost stories. He was a barrister and journalist who gained his reputation as a war correspondent covering the Boer War. He knew Africa well, and travelled extensively in the Far East and India.

  Landon’s knowledge of Asia came to fruition when he joined the Younghusband expedition to Lhasa in 1903, at first as a special correspondent for The Times but eventually becoming the expedition’s official recorder. His massive two volume (870 pages!) book Lhasa: An Account of the Country and People of Central Tibet was published in 1905.

  Landon’s first book was as editor of Heliotropes (1903), a revised edition of a seventeenth century work by John Parmenter. He put his knowledge of the East to good use again in a later book, Under the Sun (1906), a volume on Indian cities.

  Though his book output was limited, Landon wrote for over twenty years as the Daily Telegraph’s eastern correspondent, and covered the First World War for all its four years.

  Raw Edges and “Thurnley Abbey” is now all he is remembered for in the literary field. I thought it might be worth while having another look at Raw Edges to see if there were any further stories that merit revival.

  “Mrs. Rivers’s Journal,” from that book, seems to have been overlooked for 100 years. For most of its length, an intriguing Victorian morality drama, right at the end it brings in the supernatural in a scene worthy of M. R. James. It is most definitely worth reprinting.

  Mrs. Rivers’s Journal

  I

  “May 19th. Two or three people to dinner and a play. Dennis, Mr. and Mrs. Richmond, Lady Alresford, and Colonel Wyke. D. saw me home after. I think something must be the matter. D. was very much upset last night, I’m sure. It all happened very suddenly, as he had been as delightful as ever all the evening. I can’t think what it is. It was about midnight when he said something to himself, as he was looking out of the window, and changed completely.”

  Later in the day Mrs. Rivers added, almost in another hand, these notes:

  “D. called here this afternoon. At first he was very silent, and I asked him what the matter was. He said that it was not my fault in any way, and that he would explain some day. Meanwhile he asked me not to worry. But I’m sure something is very wrong, and if it is not my fault I’m half afraid that it may be on my behalf that Dennis is so upset. But he won’t say anything, and I can’t think that there is anything really to be feared. He only stayed half an hour, and went away saying that he would like to see me tomorrow morning. I thought it was a pity that he should come too often to the house, and said that I would meet him in the National Gallery at twelve o’clock. I wonder what it all means.”

  Mrs. Rivers, whose locked journal is here quoted, was in herself a very ordinary kind of pretty woman. So far as the world knew, she was a widow, and a rich widow. Her husband had died about four years before this date, and it is unlikely that he was very seriously mourned. Colonel Rivers—his title was really a Volunteer distinction, but the man deserved no little credit for the way in which he worked up his battalion—was an inordinately jealous man, and though no one believed he had the least reason for suspecting his wife’s acquaintance with Captain Dennis Cardyne, there is no doubt that, shortly before he died, it became almost a monomania with him, it may even have been a symptom of the trouble from which he must even then have been suffering acutely. Cardyne, a remarkably straight and loyal friend, with no brains, but a good sense of humour and principles which were at least as correct as those of his fellow-officers, was surprised one day by being peremptorily forbidden the house by Colonel Rivers. Human nature being what it is, it is possible that Cardyne then felt that the least impediment which friendship or loyalty could impose was removed, and there is no doubt that a general feeling of sympathy and affection for Mrs. Rivers took on quite another colouring by this idiotic proceeding on the part of Mrs. Rivers’s husband. Cardyne’s eyes were opened for the first time to the life that Mrs. Rivers must have led since her marriage four years before, though indeed she had previously taken some pains that he should quite understand her unhappiness at home. But Cardyne, who knew and liked the Colonel—in the patronizing way that the most junior of regular officers will regard a vo
lunteer—unconsciously discounted a good deal, knowing that most women like to think that their husbands misunderstand them. Hitherto he had neither disbelieved nor believed what Mrs. Rivers was insinuating. Now, however, his pity was aroused, though nothing in his conduct showed it at the moment.

  I do not suggest for a moment that Mrs. Rivers was either a very interesting or a very virtuous person. But she had the little fluffy pleading ways by which many men are strangely attracted, and even if Cardyne had made any advances, her respect for conventionality, which was far more sacred to her than she quite realized, fully supplied the place of morality during the few months that elapsed between Colonel Rivers’s explosion of jealousy and his sudden death.

  There were not many people, except the very nearest of kin, who were aware of a curious clause which Colonel Rivers had inserted in his will about the time that he forbade Dennis Cardyne to come to the house. Personal references of an unpleasant kind are not copied into the volumes in Somerset House, which contain the wills to which probate has been granted. A proviso in the will that Mrs. Rivers, in the event of her marrying again, was to forfeit one-half of the somewhat large fortune bequeathed to her by her husband was public property, but only to those who were chiefly concerned it was allowed to be known that in the event of her marrying Captain Dennis Cardyne—whose name was preceded by an epithet—she was to forfeit every penny.

  When Mrs. Rivers heard the terms of her husband’s will, she lost the last tinge of respect she had ever had for her departed helpmeet. The prohibition certainly achieved its end, but it was not long before Cardyne and Mrs. Rivers settled down to a hole-and-corner flirtation, which probably brought far more terror than pleasure into the latter’s life. Cardyne assured me that there was never anything more, and I am accustomed to believe that Dennis Cardyne speaks the truth. But the world thought otherwise and found many excuses for them. Mrs. Rivers could always justify to herself what she was doing by a remembrance of her husband’s insane and ungenerous jealousy; but the fact remained that, however much this sufficed to quiet her own conscience, Mrs. Rivers was, to the very marrow of her, a common little thing, utterly afraid of the world’s opinion, and quite unable to carry through the unconventionality of her affection for Cardyne without a burden of misery. And they did the silliest of things. After all, if a man will see a woman home from the play night after night and stay till two in the morning, he must be ready for a howl or two from the brute world. We have all done it, and done it most platonically, but at least we knew that it wasn’t over wise.