Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of Wyatt's which contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I was already possessed. Among other things, this: I had been nervous—drank too much strong green tea and slept ill at night—in fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to sleep at all. Now, my state-room opened into the main-cabin, or dining-room, as did those of all the single men on board. Wyatt's three rooms were in the after-cabin, which was separated from the main one by a slight sliding-door, never locked even at night. As we were almost constantly on a wind, and the breeze was not
a little stiff, the ship heeled to leeward very considerably; and whenever her starboard was to leeward, the sliding-door between the cabins slid open, and so remained, nobody taking the trouble to get up and shut it. But my berth was in such a position that when my own stateroom door was open, as well as the sliding-door in question (and my own door was always open on account of the heat) I could see into the after-cabin quite distinctly, and just at that portion of it, too, where were situated the state-rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights (not consecutive) while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W., about eleven o'clock upon each night, steal cautiously from the state-room of Mr. W. and enter the extra room, where she remained until daybreak, when she was called by her husband and went back. That they were virtually separated was clear. They had separate apartments—no doubt in contemplation of a more permanent divorce; and here, after all, I thought, was the mystery of the extra state-room.
There was another circumstance, too, which interested me much. During the two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after the disappearance of Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, I was attracted by certain singular, cautious, subdued noises in that of her husband's. After listening to them for some time with thoughtful attention, I at length succeeded perfectly in translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the artist in prying open the oblong box by means of a chisel and mallet, the latter being apparently muffled or deadened by some soft woollen or cotton substance in which its head was enveloped.
In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment when he fairly disengaged the lid—also, that I could determine when he removed it altogether, and when he deposited it upon the lower berth in his room; this latter point I knew, for example, by certain slight taps which the lid made in striking against the wooden edges of the berth as he endeavoured to lay it down very gently, there being no room for it on the floor. After this there was a dead stillness and I heard nothing more upon either occasion until nearly daybreak; unless, perhaps, I may mention a low sobbing or murmuring sound, so very much suppressed as to be nearly inaudible, if indeed the whole of this latter noise were not rather produced by my imagination. I say it seemed to resemble sobbing or sighing, but of course it would not have been either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr. Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely giving the rein to one of his hobbies—indulging in one of his fits of artistic enthusiasm.
He had opened his oblong box in order to feast his eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was nothing in this, however, to make him sob. I repeat therefore that it must have been simply a freak of my own fancy, distempered by good Captain Hardy's green tea. Just before dawn, on each of the two nights of which I speak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon the oblong box and force the nails into their old places by means of the muffled mallet. Having done this, he issued from his state-room, fully dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from hers.
We had been at sea seven days and were now off Cape Hatteras, when there came a tremendously heavy blow from the south-west. We were in a measure prepared for it, however, as the weather had been holding out threats for some time. Everything was made snug, alow and aloft, and as the wind steadily freshened we lay-to at length under spanker and foretopsail, both double-reefed.
In this trim we rode safely enough for forty-eight hours—the ship proving herself an excellent sea-boat in many respects and shipping no water of any consequence. At the end of this period, however, the gale had freshened into a hurricane and our after-sail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the trough of the water that we shipped several prodigious seas, one immediately after the other. By this accident we lost three men overboard with the caboose and nearly the whole of the larboard bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our senses before the foretopsail went into shreds, when we got up a storm stay-sail, and with this did pretty well for some hours, the ship heading the sea much more steadily than before.
The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its abating. The rigging was found to be ill-fitted and greatly strained; and on the third day of the blow, about five in the afternoon, our mizzen-mast, in a heavy lurch to windward, went by the board. For an hour or more we tried in vain to get rid of it, on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship, and before we had succeeded the carpenter came aft and announced four feet of water in the hold. To add to our dilemma, we found the pumps choked and nearly useless.
All was now confusion and despair—but an effort was made to lighten the ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as could be reached and by cutting away the two masts that remained. This we at last accomplished—but we were still unable to do anything at the pumps, and in the meantime the leak gained on us very fast.
At sundown the gale had sensibly diminished in violence, and as
the sea went down with it, we still entertained faint hopes of saving ourselves in the boats. At eight p.m. the clouds broke away to the windward and we had the advantage of a full moon—a piece of good fortune which served wonderfully to cheer our drooping spirits.
After incredible labour we succeeded at length in getting the longboat over the side without material accident, and into this we crowded the whole of the crew and most of the passengers. This party made off immediately and after undergoing much suffering finally arrived in safety at Ocracoke Inlet on the third day after the wreck.
Fourteen passengers, with the captain, remained on board, resolving to trust their fortunes to the jolly-boat at the stern. We lowered it without difficulty, although it was only by a miracle that we prevented it from swamping as it touched the water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr. Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and myself, with a Negro valet.
We had no room, of course, for anything except a few positively necessary instruments, some provisions and the clothes upon our backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save anything more. What must have been the astonishment of all then, when, having proceeded a few fathoms from the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up in the stern-sheets and coolly demanded of Captain Hardy that the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his oblong box!
"Sit down, Mr. Wyatt/' replied the captain, somewhat sternly; "you will capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwale is almost in the water now."
"The box!" vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing—"the box, I say! Captain Hardy, you cannot, you will not refuse me. Its weight will be but a trifle—it is nothing—mere nothing. By the mother who bore you— for the love of Heaven—by your hope of salvation, I implore you to put back for the box!"
The captain, for a moment, seemed touched by the earnest appeal of the artist, but he regained his stern composure and merely said:
"Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say, or you will swamp the boat. Stay—hold him—seize him!—he is about to spring overboard! There—I knew it—he is over!"
As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the boat, and as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded by almost superhuman exertion in getting hold of a rope which hung from the fore-chains. In another moment he was on board and rushing frantically down into the cabin.
In the meantime we had been swept astern of the ship and, being quite out of her lee, were at the mercy of the tremendous sea which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back,
but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of the tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate artist was sealed.
As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman (for as such only could we regard him) was seen to emerge from the companion-way, up which, by dint of a strength that appeared gigantic, he dragged bodily the oblong box. While we gazed in the extremity of astonishment, he passed rapidly several turns of a three-inch rope, first around the box and then around his body. In another instant both body and box were in the sea—disappearing suddenly, at once and for ever.
We lingered a while sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted upon the spot. At length we pulled away. The silence remained unbroken for an hour. Finally, I hazarded a remark.
"Did you observe, captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that an exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some feeble hope of his final deliverance, when I saw him lash himself to the box and commit himself to the sea."
"They sank as a matter of course," replied the captain, "and that like a shot. They will soon rise again, however, but not till the salt melts."
"The salt!" I ejaculated.
"Hush!" said the captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the deceased. "We must talk of these things at some more appropriate time."
We suffered much and made a narrow escape, but fortune befriended us as well as our mates in the long-boat. We landed, in fine weather, more dead than alive, after four days of intense distress, upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers and at length obtained a passage to New York.
About a month after the loss of the Independence, I happened to meet Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned, naturally, upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars.
The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters and a servant. His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a most lovely and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the fourteenth of June (the day in which I first visited the ship), the lady
suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was frantic with grief—but circumstances imperatively forbade deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her mother the corpse of his adored wife, and on the other hand, the universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned the ship rather than take passage with a dead body.
In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being first partially embalmed, and packed with a large quantity of salt in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady's decease, and as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some person should impersonate her during the voyage. This the deceased's lady's maid was easily prevailed on to do. The extra state-room, originally engaged for this girl during her mistress's life, was now merely retained. In this state-room the pseudo wife slept of course every night. In the day-time she performed, to the best of her ability, the part of her mistress—whose person, it had been carefully ascertained, was not known to any of the passengers on board. My own mistakes arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too inquisitive and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is an hysterical laugh which will for ever ring within my ears.
AFTERWORD
by Christopher Lee
IF someone were to take a survey of cinema audiences and the kind of pictures they like, I have a feeling the horror film would come out as number one in popularity. There can be little disputing the fact that people go to see these films, not out of an excessive taste for morbidity, or to be frightened out of their wits, but simply to enjoy them. For we all like to escape the daily routine occasionally and blow off some emotional steam, and horror films provide as good a release as any.
It is a strange thought, you know, but there is a kind of illusion-reality about horror. It's a contradiction in terms: it can't happen-but there are people up on the screen making it happen. This is true of writers of macabre stories, too. They make you believe their stories as you sit reading, and if they are very good indeed you'll look under the bed or behind the door afterwards to convince yourself there's really nothing there after all!
I am, of course, speaking from personal experience on the subject of horror pictures; and I know from meeting people around the world that audiences react in different ways to the different kinds of terror we know can be engendered. The French and Germans, for instance, like to be frightened in quite different ways, the French dwelling on the terrors of cynicism and the Germans—who gave horror to the cinema with The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari— on the terrors of the mind. In the Far East, where the standards of literacy are lower and the powers of superstition stronger, you find audiences enjoy a totally different kind of terror. Generally speaking, though, everyone enjoys the ghoulish pleasures of the "graveyard horror tales" which it has been my pleasure and that of my distinguished co-contributor to this volume, Vincent Price, to make.
Over the years that I have been making these films, I have met many writers of horror stories, which gives me a particular interest in a collection such as this—for we in the film business rely on tales like the ones you have just read for our raw material. I have, for instance, been an admirer of Ray Russell, the author of numerous horror film scripts, for years. And Ray Bradbury, who wrote The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms, has become a close personal friend of mine, along with the remarkable Robert Bloch, creator of Psycho and The Skull, which is
included here. My connections with Bram Stoker and his story Dra-cula are, of course, too well known to need more than a mention, but it was my good fortune to meet his granddaughter and great-grandson recently when I was making a record of Draculas Daughter. Incidentally, this story was originally part of Dracula, but Mrs. Stoker talked Bram out of putting it in because the book was already too long for the publisher.
But I am digressing somewhat. My real purpose in being here is to comment on the actors who have played ghouls and give my estimation of them. Let me say right away that I consider Lon Chaney the greatest of them all, a genius in fact, with Boris Karloff running a close second.
Lon Chaney was a most remarkable man. He was born the son of deaf mutes, and although there was a great sadness and introspection about him, he still managed to overcome all his handicaps before the cameras. He was a master of make-up, too, and was widely known as "The Man of a Thousand Faces". He underwent the most excruciating pains to deform himself for his parts, and nothing was ever too much trouble to achieve realism and conviction in his acting. I find it hardly surprising that he died in his early forties looking exhausted and a great deal older than his years.
Boris Karloff, with whom I had the pleasure of working on several occasions (including one of his last films, Curse of the Crimson Altar^), was also a brilliant actor and greatly underrated. His Frankenstein is the most famous of all horror films and his performance probably the finest piece of individual acting we have ever seen on the screen. I think we shall not see his like again.
Although these two are head and shoulders above all others, the terror film genre has been served by so many great actors that I must also accord mention to several others: Basil Rathbone, Bela Lugosi, Peter Lorre, and my contemporaries, Vincent Price and Peter Cushing. Their ability has brought credit and distinction—not to mention popularity—to a branch of film-making too often unfairly derided for containing excesses of torture and violence, blood and gore.
I could say more, but actors prefer to let their acting speak for them and most readers will have their own very definite ideas and preferences where horror films are concerned. Just let me say in conclusion, then, that I believe "The Ghouls" have their own special place in the cinema —and I am more th
an proud to be one of their number.
London, 1970.
THE GHOULS
Cast and Credits
THE DEVIL IN A CONVENT (Georges Melies: 1896)
From a story, The Devil In A Nunnery, by Francis Oscar Mann. Director: Georges Melies. Starring: Georges Melies.
THE LUNATICS
(Edison: 1912)
From a story, The System of Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether, by
Edgar Allan Poe.
Director: Thomas Edison.
Stars unknown. One later version.
PURITAN PASSIONS
(Film Guild-Hodkinson: 1923)
Originally based on a story, Feathertop, by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Director: Frank Tuttle.
Starring: Glen Hunter, Mary Astor and Osgood Perkins.
PHANTOM OF THE OPERA (Universal: 192.5)
Based on a novella of the same name by Gaston Leroux. Director: Rupert Julian. Starring: Lon Chaney and Mary Philbin. Two later versions.
THE MAGICIAN
(Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer: 1926)
From a story by W. Somerset Maugham.
Director: Rex Ingram.
Starring: Paul Wegener and Alice Terry. Now lost.
FREAKS
(Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer: 1932)
From a story, Spurs, by Tod Robbins.
Director: Tod Browning.
Starring: Wallace Ford, Leila Hyams, Olga Baclanova and Roscoe
Ates.
MOST DANGEROUS GAME (RKO Radio: 193Z)
From a story, The Most Dangerous Game, by Richard Connell. Director: Irving Pichel and Ernest B. Schoedsack. Starring: Joel McCrea, Fay Wray and Leslie Banks. Two later versions.
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