The Revenants

by Geoffrey Farrington

  We’ve been a long while wassailing,

  In the leaves so green-o,

  Now here we came a-wandering,

  Where we can be seen-o,

  For ’tis Christmas time,

  And we wander far and near,

  May God keep you and send you

  A happy New Year.

  It was at this moment that I would glance about at the others in the room. They were all faceless. That is, their faces looked to me blurred and distorted, so that I could distinguish nothing about them; and their voices, although loud, were no more than strange indistinct mumbles. In such a homely setting this was disturbing, although for some reason I did not find it particularly frightening. My feelings were rather those of isolation and despair than fear. Desperately I would look all about for a normal human face somewhere in the room.

  And then at last the doors would open and a figure would enter that was more strange and macabre even than the rest. It appeared to be no more than a shadow. A ghostly form shrouded in black, framed in the glowing firelight. I could make out nothing about it. I could not tell its size or shape, whether it was male or female: whether it was human at all, for mostly it seemed a shapeless mass. And yet its presence was overwhelming. It shone with a strange force that wholly entranced me. It stood on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by the others, who did not appear to see it, while it in its turn took no notice of them. And I gazed at the black mask that I believed to be its face, unable to see any eyes, yet in some way aware that its attention was focused on me. Until at last I was affected by a most strange sensation. The feeling that I was becoming somehow absorbed and lost in the blank, black depths of that face. And gradually a creeping numbness would start to spread through my body – and the singular thing was that although this always happened in exactly the same way, and I grew to expect it, it nevertheless startled and shocked me anew every time – until finally it left me paralysed. Rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak through the power of this dark presence.

  Next there was a voice. It came from nowhere in particular, but would float gently into my head. It was very soft, a breathless whisper, and yet always I heard it quite clearly above the incoherent dronings of the faceless ones; as if someone spoke into my ear. And it said simply:

  “Come to me, John LePerrowne!”

  No sooner were these words spoken than I would feel myself begin to move slowly towards the figure – not through any effort of my own, for I was still incapable of controlling my actions – and I was drawn forward by some invisible and immensely powerful force. Frightened now, I tried to fight against it, to pull free first by struggling, and then by the exertion of my will. I attempted to recite the 23rd Psalm, because at the time it was all I could think of as a means to oppose the power that held me. But it was never any use, for I found that, try as I might, I could not speak. My jaw stayed shut and my tongue seemed swollen and rigid. Desperately I strove to speak the first line of the psalm, but all that came were slurred and frantic noises. As I came closer to the figure it moved forward and seemed to reach out, as if to embrace me.

  Now I would stop fighting. It seemed at once inevitable that I should go to the figure. It was intriguing. It was mysterious and strangely powerful. And it called to me! Also, something else would suddenly occur to me. That if I did not go to it then I would be left alone, stranded amongst those mumbling, distorted figures. This thought filled me with horror, for the room about me at once grew dark, and its occupants now seemed to become somehow fearsome and hellish. So I reached out my arms and clung to the figure as it came to me, wrapping itself about me, engulfing me, so that my head grew light, and began to spin, and the room in which I stood along with its awful inhabitants faded from sight to be replaced by a mist of inky blackness that crept all about me and entirely blotted out my vision.

  Now I would be overcome by another remarkable sensation; a feeling of incredible energy and strength passing through me; a feeling that I, with my perennial bad health, had certainly never experienced in a conscious state. And when this sense of power attained its zenith I would feel myself begin to sink down and down; a slow, pleasant floating sensation. And it was at this moment always I awoke in my bed.

  I never minded having this dream, though much of it was so disquieting. For me all its bad and frightening aspects were more than compensated by that enormous flood of power that came at the end. To feel strength and vigour was for me a remarkable and exhilarating experience. When young I dreamed often: many dreams other than the one I have just described; but none were remotely as vivid or had such a profound effect on me. In no other dream do I ever recall having known any real sense of physical feeling. Once I dreamed that my arm had been lopped off – I cannot remember how – and I stood, moaning in shock and horror as I watched the blood spurt in gushes from the ragged stump. But in spite of my very real fear, I felt no pain from the wound whatsoever. My recurrent dream was the only one where my senses operated as in consciousness. Indeed, even more so.

  When I was fifteen my dear old nursemaid Sally died, which grieved me greatly; and then the following year my father suffered a stroke which left him partly paralysed. My mother was so shocked by the suddenness of his attack that her own poor health deteriorated and she was henceforth confined to her bed for much of the time. Mine had always been an old and melancholy house. Now it seemed oppressed by an atmosphere of decay and death.

  It was at this time, when I felt more bewildered and lonely than ever, that I had a most strange experience. It was on a very hot night in August, and I lay on my bed in my nightshirt, covered only by a single sheet; dozing but unable to sleep properly for the stifling atmosphere. Suddenly my drowsiness was dispelled by a faint scratching sound from somewhere nearby. I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes, and looked across the room to where a shaft of moonlight flooded through the window and glowed on the floor. Rising, I stumbled to the window and saw that the latch was rusty and loose, and rattled occasionally in the faint breeze. Because of the heat that night I had left the window ajar, which was not my usual custom, even in summer, because of my weak chest. But now, in sheer annoyance, I just undid the latch and threw the window wide open. Then I returned to bed and dropped back into a light sleep.

  I have no idea how long it was before I woke again with a loud gasp. I was shivering violently. The temperature inside the room had dropped considerably. Somewhere in the back of my half conscious mind I realised that I must get up and close the window; but for some reason I was unable to stir myself. My mind was now quite awake, but my body it seemed was still asleep; unable to move, as though a great weight was upon me, pinning me to the bed.

  And then from the corners of my half-closed eyes I fancied that I saw some movement, swift and silent, in the shadows over by the wall. Eventually, with a great effort, I managed to turn my head and stared hard for what seemed like several minutes into the gloom. But I saw nothing. And at last, in spite of this strange and alarming situation and my intense physical discomfort I must have closed my eyes and fallen asleep again, for I next remember awakening with another start to see a figure standing over me. By this time the moonlight had faded and my room was in almost total darkness, so I could distinguish very little about the figure, even when very slowly it leaned over me, sinking down until its face was a few inches above mine and I felt the swish of long silk hair brush against my cheek. Gently now the figure placed its hand upon my chest as it moved closer still, and I was startled to discover that the intruder’s body was deathly cold. I tried to speak, to cry out, but could not.

  At once my head was filled with the forms and images of my dream; yet whether I dreamed the murky figure that loomed above me, I was not sure. Asleep or awake – dream or reality – I was certain of nothing.

  Now my body grew tense, my temples began to pound and my heart raced uncontrollably. And suddenly I felt hot once more; unendurably hot. A great burning rose up inside me, so that my blood seemed as though it were boiling, and I f
elt streams of sticky sweat running down my face. The heat became so great I began to toss and writhe as if in the grip of a mighty fever. It grew and spread rapidly through my limbs, affecting my whole body; overcoming me, smothering me, so that I lay, barely able to breathe; gasping, choking, and utterly helpless.

  But now I became aware of a body pressed up against mine, soft breasts beneath a thin gown; strong, slender arms that encircled me, firm thighs that clung to me, and gentle lips that brushed against my brow, cheek and mouth. And the body was still cold: as cold as ice, only now its touch had become entirely pleasing to me, and I threw my arms about it and pressed it to me with all my strength; as if to immerse myself in its coldness and so extinguish the fire that raged inside me. Then I cried out softly and my strength dissolved as there came a burst of indescribable sensual pleasure: a thrilling, biting chill that raced and quivered through my veins, killing the heat inside me, overwhelming me with a feeling of immense strength and satisfaction. I lay, squirming and fighting for breath, until at last the sensation died and the coldness against me was no more. Again I felt myself sinking deeper into sleep. With a feeling close to panic I fought to wake myself. At last, with immense effort, I opened my eyes. The figure sat on the bed beside me, its features still lost in the darkness, looking more than ever like the shadow form in my dream. And it was as I lay staring that suddenly the room was lit once more, for just a few fleeting moments, by a faint beam of moonlight. Just enough, however, for me to glimpse for a second or two the face of the intruder. To my utter astonishment I saw it was that of a very beautiful young woman. Her skin was so fair it seemed to shine, her eyes wide and extremely dark, and her hair long, lustrous and raven black, hanging down loose about her slender neck and shoulders. I saw no more. Darkness closed in again, and my vision faded as all feeling ebbed gradually away, leaving only a comfortable numbness that soon subsided into dark oblivion.

  When I awoke next morning my knowledge of all this was cloudy – total recall has come in gradual stages over the years – but I was aware of much of it. After some brief reflection I concluded it must all have been a series of incredible, half-sleeping, half-waking imaginings; although the fact that my window was wide open proved that part of it, at least, had been real. But in future, whenever I had my dream, I would instinctively associate the shady, anonymous figure with that strange and lovely face I had seen that night, in the silver shroud of moonlight.

  II

  When I was eighteen my companion and tutor, Soame, retired to somewhere in Suffolk with his widowed sister. My mother died when I was twenty-one; and my father lived on, although he was by this time almost wholly paralysed, for another two years. Then, apart from the few old servants, I was alone.

  I must confess that at my father’s death I felt as much a sense of relief as of sorrow. Since my earliest years I had been confined at home by my parents’ constant concern for my health; and then, when I grew up, I had felt it my duty to devote myself to attending them during the illnesses of their old age. It was now, for the first time ever, that I felt really free. Not that I had any idea what to do with my freedom. For a while I considered attending a university – learning attracted me – but eventually I dismissed the idea. After all, I was wealthy beyond the need to secure a profession, and preferred the idea of private study to the tyrannies of tutor and timetable. Society held no allure for me – I was inexperienced and frankly disinterested in all the usual pursuits and pleasures of a young man of my station. I did feel a wish to travel – the Grand tour, perhaps – but here the problem was my poor constitution. Long days of riding in a coach and constant changes of diet and climate were hardly likely to suit me. And yet I felt I must do something. It was not then uncommon for the local villagers never to venture more than a few miles from their homes in their whole lives, but for a young man of my education and fortune it was ridiculous. But the cause of my problem was plain enough. It was simply that after so many years in this remote and lonely house, I had come to view the outside world with some degree of nervousness. Isolation had become a habit with me, and one that might not be easy to break.

  It was some months after my father’s death, when a respectable period of mourning had elapsed, that I received a visit from one of his old friends, Mr Lansdowne, whom I had known since boyhood. He was a friendly, sturdy man of about fifty, who owned a sizeable amount of land nearby. My servant Moore ushered him into the drawing room, and he strode over, shaking my hand vigorously.

  “Good day to you John, good day,” he smiled. “And how are you, my dear boy? Well, I trust, in spite of your sad loss?”

  “Well enough, Mr Lansdowne,” I answered, my voice solemn out of respect for his long standing friendship with my father.

  For the next hour or so we sat exchanging light conversation. He said that he had been in Launceston on some business, and had suddenly thought of me and decided to call; but I gained the impression finally that he had not been to Launceston at all, but had made his journey with the intention of visiting me. Before leaving he said:

  “You will forgive me for mentioning it, my boy, but I think that it is altogether a bad thing for you to remain constantly cooped up on your own in this house. I feel a duty towards you, you know, for the sake of your good father’s memory. He was my best friend, and I feel his loss almost as keenly as you must yourself. But you will not lessen your grief through solitude. You will recall that at your father’s funeral I mentioned that as soon as you felt sufficiently recovered you must come to my home, and stay with my family and I. I am sure you would enjoy that, would you not?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am sure I would,” I replied with as much conviction as I could muster.

  “You should, in my opinion, mix more with people of your own age,” he continued.

  I nodded slowly, trying hard not to frown.

  “Young people, left by themselves, become much prone to melancholy.” He nodded and smiled. “And I am sure that my daughter Frances looks forward to seeing you again. You remember Frances, I am sure!”

  “Indeed I do,” I answered dully. I knew Frances Lansdowne from my childhood visits to their home with my father. She was a big, robust girl, about the same age as I. I believed that my parents and Mr and Mrs Lansdowne, had once nurtured hopes that Frances and I might one day marry, but I, and Frances too, were resolved that this would never be, for we never liked each other. She had been a vain and spiteful child, who had never ceased to tease and laugh at me for my frailness, and encouraged her friends to do likewise; choosing boisterous, energetic games in which I could not easily participate, and calling me “weakling”, “runt” or “crybaby”, in spite of the fact that she never succeeded in making me cry, for all her efforts. However, she did succeed in making me loathe and dread those visits to her home, shun the company of other children, and feel almost glad that I lived as secluded and alone as I did; as well as feeling an overpowering self-consciousness and shyness wherever girls and young women were concerned. I had not seen her for some years, but I had no desire whatsoever to renew her acquaintance. However, her father’s insistence made the offer difficult to refuse. In the end I agreed to spend Christmas with the Lansdownes.

  * * *

  I arrived at the Lansdowne house at midday on Christmas Eve, well wrapped to protect me from the cold, already beginning to wish myself back at my own home, and that I had made some excuse to decline the invitation. But it was too late now, so I decided simply that I must stay as short a time as courtesy permitted, and told myself that in any case it was high time I began to make some social contact in the district.

  Mr and Mrs Lansdowne greeted me very cordially, though their patently rehearsed efforts to make me feel welcome were rather embarrassing. Almost at once I was thrust into the company of the fearsome Frances. Her manner towards me had changed since we were children. She no longer bothered and teased me. Now she virtually ignored me. When she did trouble to speak to me she was cold and haughty, like when she introduced me to her c
ousin George, who was also visiting over Christmas, and whose company I found every bit as unpleasant as her own. This young man managed his elderly father’s farm somewhere in Devon, and seemed incapable of talking about anything but horses, dogs, and livestock. As soon as he saw that I had no knowledge of these things he lost all interest in me, much to my relief. Often Frances and George would sit, glancing at me across the room, whispering and laughing together; and all the misery of my childhood days spent there would come back.

  There were other guests staying there, many of them warm and kindly people who, sensing my shyness, attempted to converse with me. But they found me poor company. They were straightforward country people who spoke of practical, everyday matters of which I was wholly ignorant. It was not that I did not wish for companionship – indeed, I desired it greatly – but it seemed there was none for me here. Indeed, I felt more alone in that crowded house than ever I had in the solitude of my own home.

  “There is to be a ball tonight,” Mr Lansdowne informed me, finding me sitting on my own that afternoon after lunch. “Nothing at all grand or formal, of course. Just some of our good friends who live hereabouts. But I am sure it will be a merry affair.”

  “I will look forward to it,” I told him, as my heart sank. The thought of a house full of chattering strangers was all I needed now to make my misery complete.

  Fatigued by my morning journey, I slept for several hours into the early evening, when I was woken by a servant who informed me that the guests were beginning to arrive. Wearily I rose and put on my evening clothes, then left my room and plodded downstairs.

  At the foot of the broad staircase, Mrs Lansdowne, a rotund, florid faced woman, emerged from the pantry door and hurried towards me, beaming broadly.