Best New Horror 29

by Stephen Jones

  I drove through a mixture of park and farmland until, in a dip, I found Glimham Hall. It was not an architectural gem: a plain Queen Anne box of red brick, like a doll’s house, with a few ill-advised Victorian additions and excresc-ences. As soon as I was parked on the gravel drive in front of the Victorian limestone portico, Lord Glimham in his green tweed Norfolk jacket emerged to greet me. I had taken the trouble to arrive precisely at the time agreed.

  I had not expected to like Glimham, and I didn’t, but at least you knew where you were: some way beneath him admittedly. He treated me rather as if I were a high-class plumber come to look at his drains. He ushered me into the drawing room where his wife, a skeletal blonde who might once have been beautiful, offered me a small cup of coffee and then never spoke again.

  “To tell the truth,” said Glimham who was not one for polite preliminaries. “we don’t talk much about William in the family.” It was as if William Sotheran were still around, a disgraced uncle perhaps. “But I think we have some papers relating to him. Do you suppose they could be valuable?”

  “Very much so,” I said. I knew that he was talking of commercial value and I meant value of another kind, but I did not enlighten him.

  “Nobody seems to realise how much it costs to keep a place like this going. I’m hanging on by the skin of my teeth. That’s what those unspeakably ghastly people at the gate can’t understand. I don’t want a lot of frackers all over my land, any more than they do, but I’m at the end of my tether. If the fracking chaps don’t come up with the goods I’ll have to sell up. Glimham has been in the family for over 300 years, you know.”

  I nodded sympathetically: it was a point of view.

  I had barely finished my coffee when he was taking me through to “the library”, a long room lined floor to ceiling with bookcases above oak muniment cupboards. Apart from a shelf of Dick Francis thrillers and sporting manuals, none of the books looked as if they had been read or even handled for 100 years or so.

  Glimham pointed to a desk on which reposed a number of deed boxes.

  “Funny thing,” he said. “I had a scout around before you came, to see what there was about old William. Thought I’d have a devil of a job finding anything, but my black Lab Stephen began snuffling and pawing at one of those cupboards.” He pointed to a row of muniment cupboards. “So I unlocked it and these boxes practically fell out. Inside, family papers and stuff about William. Got it in one, thanks to a Labrador! Old Steve’s a bloody good gun dog; but I never imagined he was keen on literature. Eh? Eh?” He seemed immensely pleased by his joke and I was happy to join in the laughter. I was very excited by this time. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Yell if you want anything. Serena, the wife, will be around somewhere.” And he quitted the library.

  The papers were in complete disorder. Wills, bills, deeds, letters, even old newspaper clippings had been crammed into boxes and forgotten. I was as frustrated by the confusion as I was thrilled by the occasional serendipitous discovery.

  Details of William Sotheran’s life emerged haphazardly. A long account of Sotheran’s assault on the woman in the carriage written by a lawyer for the Sotheran family revealed that his frenzied attack seemed to have been triggered by the lady taking out a small hand mirror from her reticule and scrutinising herself in it. A letter from the keeper of the asylum to which he was confined as a result of this incident writes to the family to say that:

  His conduct is generally sober and gentlemanly, unless he finds himself in proximity with a looking glass, upon which he becomes extremely agitated and sometimes violent. On being asked why this harmless domestic item should occasion such alarm, he replied mysteriously that it was not so much what he saw in a mirror that troubled him as what he did not see. I have pressed him to explain further, but he will not.

  I found also fragments of his writing, early drafts of some of his poems, all in the same hand which I took to be his. But undoubtedly the most interesting and valuable manuscript of his that I found was in prose. It appeared to be an account of his travels abroad in 1816. Some of it consists of jottings of dates and places, along with a few descriptive notes, but there are longer passages in the form of a journal as well. I had the feeling that he had intended to work it up into a publishable work, but circumstances prevented him. At the head of the manuscript, he tries out various titles: ‘The Wandering Poet’, ‘The Bard Abroad’ and ‘Childe William’s Pilgrimage’, this last heavily crossed out. Perhaps he felt that the nod towards Lord Byron’s recent work (which, notoriously, made him famous overnight) to be too slavish.

  Towards the end of this manuscript there is a passage of sustained narrative, parts of which I must quote:

  My uncle Sir Henry Wellesley [British Ambassador to Spain at the time] received me kindly. He told me that thanks to his brother and my Uncle, the Duke of Wellington, to whom Spain owed a great debt for its liberation from the Corsican Tyrant, I was to be in high favour with the Spanish people, its court and its nobility. I expressed my wish to see the wonders of this great country and, in particular, its monasteries and religious institutions which, as an ordained priest of the church, albeit of England and not Rome, must interest me greatly. That my concern was more romantic than religious, that I had a yearning to behold:

  The Horrid crags by toppling convent crown’d

  The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep…

  [Byron. ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage’ I.19]

  I concealed from my noble kinsman.

  Within a few days he had assigned me to the most noble Marquis de Santa Cruz and his brother, the Grand Prior of San Isidore, as my conductors and companions. Far from being reluctant to the task, they seemed most eager to oblige. That their court and ecclesiastical duties were so light, or so wearisome, that they had the leisure and the eager-ness to conduct a young English gentleman around the monasteries of Spain was a source of great astonishment to me, but my uncle informed me that it had been the wish of His Majesty himself, King Ferdinand VII, that I should be so honoured. The Marquis was a small meagre man, somewhat in awe of his much larger wife from whom he was doubtless happy to escape. His younger brother, the Grand Prior, was built on an altogether grander scale as befitted his rank. As neither gentleman was anxious to forego an atom of the comforts and conveniences habitual to their stations in life, we set off accompanied by a great array of carriages, mule-drivers, grooms and acolytes, together with my servant Marston and my Arabian steed, Salamanca, a present from my esteemed Uncle, the Duke. We formed altogether a caravan which, camels and dromedaries excepted, would have cut no unworthy figure on the route to Mecca.

  There is much more in the same ironic style, but I want to cut to an incident a little further on in the journal.

  Our reception by the monks of Alcala had exceeded even the Grand Prior’s expectations, and we set out late that morning for Guadalajara with heavy hearts and even fuller stomachs. It was a hot day, and I found the interior of the carriage oppressive, and its close air, perfumed by the bodily exhalations of my noble companions, offensive. While they were disposed to sleep or, as my Lord Prior, expressed it to “silent prayer and meditation”, I was for air and exercise. I therefore asked permission of my conductors to take my Arabian and ride ahead of the caravan. They, with some humorous remarks about the impetuosity of young Englishmen in midday sun, readily gave permission. Marston saddled Salamanca and I set off.

  My courser, pampered by the rich provender with which he had been so abundantly supplied by the good monks of Alacala, set no bounds to his exertions, even though the morning sun, unclouded, was approaching its zenith. We followed the road to Guadalajara as it crossed a wide and empty plain, at full stretch. Like Phaethon I felt myself:

  With flying speed outstrip the Eastern wind

  And leave the breezes of the morn behind

  [Ovid, The Metamorphoses: Book 2 ll 158-9 trans Samuel Garth]

  Like Phaethon, perhaps, I scorched myself in my reckless career, but never had I
felt an atmosphere so elastic, so full of life and light. I was on fire with the poetry of motion and longed to translate my sensations into deathless verse. At last Salamanca began to tire and I was able to curb his velocity. We found ourselves entering a valley with mountains on either side. One of these mountains I saw was crowned with a fine set of buildings, which I took to be a monastery or convent. Some of it was in a state of decay, but the main part of the structure looked sound, with a handsome bell-tower and a platform on which to walk. I stopped altogether and tied Salamanca to a nearby olive tree in order to gaze in astonishment at this edifice, for it seemed too lonely and remote to sustain a thriving community. No other human dwelling could be seen for miles, and the plain across which I had just ridden so precipitously was almost barren of vegetation. I was just wondering if it could possibly be inhabited when I heard the Angelus sound from the bell tower, and presently I saw a hooded figure appear on the platform. He wore the black cowl of the Benedictine order.

  He stood alone and, though he was above a quarter of a mile away and the cowl obscured much of his face, I had the overwhelming impression that he was staring at me. I stared back at him and, for near half an hour, we remained thus occupied in mutual contemplation. What my thoughts were during this mysterious exercise I have no recollection. Then the cowled figure turned and began to glide towards what I took to be the monastery church and was lost from sight. I felt a strong urge to make my way up to the monastery and seek entry, but prudence restrained me. Besides, the heat of the day and my exertions had overwhelmed me with profound exhaustion. I sought the meagre shade of the olive tree to which Salamanca was tethered, sat myself down under it and, despite the discomfort of the stony ground, fell into a doze.

  I was awakened suddenly by the cries of the muleteers who formed the advance guard of our little caravan. I roused myself and, with a sore and throbbing head, sought out my guardians’ carriage which, for all its foetid atmosphere, would provide me with more comfort and shade than my previous resting-place.

  The Marquis and the Grand Prior greeted me with expressions of considerable relief. They had been worried in case I had ridden too far and become lost in this wilderness. I thanked them for their concern, and then pointed out to them the monastery on the hill to their right. I saw the Marquis throw a quick glance at his brother, the Grand Prior, who crossed himself. I asked him to tell me something of the place. The Grand Prior told me that it was the Benedictine Priory of St. Simeon, but that it had been long since abandoned as being too remote and inconvenient even for the most ascetic of that order. Not so I replied, for I had seen a black monk of the Benedictine order standing upon that very platform yonder, and I pointed. Again the brothers exchanged agitated glances, and the Grand Prior shook his head and said I must have been mistaken and perhaps the heat had affected my senses. Might we not at least see if the place was indeed deserted, I asked? No, indeed, the Grand Prior replied, for we were expected at Guadalajara before nightfall and must be on our way.

  I did not dispute with him further because I was still suffering from the effects of my exhaustion and the heat. In fact, I was beginning to feel somewhat unwell. I climbed into the carriage, sat down, and almost at once fell into a heavy swoon or sleep and knew no more until we were at the very gates of the Monastery of San Pedro at Guadalajara.

  There I remained for several days, though I cannot remember much about it. The heat had so affected me that I fell sick of a fever which disordered my brain. A young novice, Fray Antonio, who had been appointed to look after me, told me after my recovery that, during this period when I was not asleep, I was delirious. During my sickness, according to Fray Antonio, I had risen from my bed many times with the avowed intention of climbing a mountain, and it was all he could do to restrain me. I had insisted to him that the mountain was called “Parnassus” which, he informed me in his simplicity, he had never heard of and was certainly not in Spain. On hearing this, I could not forbear to laugh, which seemed to wound him, but I embraced my novice and told him he was an exceedingly good fellow and we were friends again.

  My noble and reverend conductors during this time had deserted me in order to inspect a parcel of land which the Marquis wished to buy, so that I was left to my own devices. This suited me well, for it took me some time to recover my spirits and the monastery at Guadalajara, in fact a Franciscan friary, was quiet and airy, a solemn, plain building, but not destitute of wholesome comforts.

  I was nonetheless curious about my experiences, and I asked one of the older friars, Fray Juan, about the Priory of St. Simeon. He seemed reluctant to speak, but when I pressed him, he told me that the place had acquired an evil reputation and had been abandoned before the French came. Guerrillas had for a time used it as a refuge during the war with Napoleon, but even they had deserted it. I asked what was the nature of the evil that had inhabited it, but Fray Juan said only that the isolation of the Priory had turned the heads of its inhabitants, who had previously had the reputation of extreme asceticism and holiness. I asked him if he was quite sure that the Priory was now unoccupied. He hesitated a moment and then said, in a most determined manner, that it was.

  I wonder if it was that hesitation which decided me; I cannot say, but I became resolved to visit St. Simeon. My guardians, I was informed, were not to return for some days, so I was at liberty to please myself. I summoned my servant Marston who, during my illness, had gainfully employed himself in a liaison with a local innkeeper’s daughter, and commanded him to prepare Salamanca for an early start the following day. He looked at me doubtfully, but when I told him he need not accompany me, he was all smiles.

  I set off the following morning before dawn, so as to avoid if at all possible the mid-day heat. The day was fresh, and first light was empurpling the Jarmara Hills as I rode out. I crossed the Henares river, and gave my Arabian its head. I felt the bliss of youth and the prospect of glory, yet why I had embarked upon such a doubtful venture I cannot say.

  The sun was approaching the full blaze of noon when I came to the valley and the mount of St. Simeon. Whether it was my own light-headedness or the recuperative powers of the Franciscan Friary, I was feeling no ill effects from the heat. I crossed a small stream, allowing Salamanca to drink his fill from the crystal waters, then, leading my horse by the reins, I began to climb a wide, stony track towards the monastery of St. Simeon.

  Close to, the edifice seemed more vast in extent and more ruinous than I had previously supposed. I stopped before a gateway, half-tumbled, and showing the pockmarks of shot on its two great pillars, doubtless a memento of its recent incarnation as a guerrilla fortress. I would have led my steed through this gate into the inner courtyard, had not Salamanca utterly refused to proceed a step further into the monastery precincts. Accordingly, I tied my Arabian to a gnarled bush that sprang from a confusion of fallen masonry and proceeded inside alone and on foot.

  The structures that I encountered within the monastery wall had once been magnificent, but were now in a state of melancholy ruination. Weeds erupted from every crack and crevice of the marble-flagged pavement, which I crossed to reach the main entrance. This was in the form of an elaborately carved ogival arch framing double doors of oak, bound with elaborate iron arabesques. The wood was scorched and rotted, and one half of the door had fallen away from its hinges. Beyond these portals, I could see little light and no trace of human occupation. I could hear nothing but the wind and the beating of my own heart.

  I stood for some time at the entrance while I seriously considered my position. It was beginning to seem increasingly probable to me that the vision of the black monk on the monastery battlements a few days before was nothing but a delusion, “proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain”. St. Simeon was a deserted ruin, and I should leave this scene of horrid desolation forthwith. Yet there is something that craves the strange sensations that such prospects engender in the poetic soul.

  …This is not solitude: ’tis but to hold

  Converse with savage
Nature, and view her force unrolled

  [‘Childe Harold’ II.25—adapted, or misremembered by Sotheran?]

  I thrust aside the decaying oak doors and entered a great vaulted hall lit by arched windows now cracked and open to the air beyond, but once richly decked with coloured glass, of which only a few fragments remained to bejewel the ruined pavement. My footsteps echoed, but nothing else was there to stain the silence.

  I had come to the foot of a great staircase and was just about to mount it, when I heard a noise behind me. It was no more than an exhalation of breath, but it was as sharp as a sting in that immemorial stillness. I turned, and saw standing some ten feet away from me a cowled figure, the same, I was sure, that I had seen on the monastery battlements a few days before. His hood was up and shadowed most of his face, though I could see that it was lean, clean-shaven and bone-white in colour. The eyes dwelt unseen in cavernous sockets under heavy brows.

  In my best halting Spanish I greeted him and begged his pardon for my intrusion. The monk spoke not a word. I bowed and he bowed in return, a low but dignified obeisance, then gestured to me to follow him. I did not venture to engage him in further conversation, suspecting that perhaps his order had bound him to silence.

  He led me through a succession of halls and passageways, each one vaster, gloomier and more ruined than the last, until finally he ushered me into a great corridor lit by a succession of beams of light coming from circular apertures in the groined vaulting of its roof. The corridor appeared to have no end, and I observed that there were figures coming towards me from a distance. Then I realised that the figures approaching were myself and my ghostly conductor. We had entered from a side door and there were mirrors at either end of the corridor to create the illusion of an infinite recession into a dim obscurity of space.