Sanctuary & Other Ghost Stories

by Tom Kasey

  Daniel had been as competent and talented as ever – and he did have talent, despite his often disagreeable personality – and, as he sat in the wing chair waiting for the ghost and the final curtain, the anguish and agony was visible for all to see on his finely-chiselled features.

  ‘He’s very good, you know,’ Paul Evans, Daniel Park’s understudy, murmured, unconsciously echoing Teague’s own opinion.

  Evans was sitting in the seat next to the director in the back row, as he had been since the opening curtain, making notes that would be discussed with the cast members once the performance was over.

  ‘I know,’ Teague replied. ‘It’s just a shame that he’s such an arrogant little shit.’

  Evans smiled in the darkness of the hall and turned his attention back to the final act of the play.

  And Robert, when he appeared, was clearly at his best. He seemed to glide over the stage, his movements fluid and menacing, and the sudden terror in Daniel’s eyes seemed almost real. Though the shriek which he produced as the cowled figure bent over him seemed a little off-key, the overall effect was excellent. The curtains closed and the house lights came up.

  The Players didn’t do curtain calls – Teague had always thought that particular theatre tradition both insincere and unnecessary – but the applause from the assembled crowd was gratifying loud and satisfyingly long. Malice seemed assured of a short but successful run.

  As soon as the hall began to empty, Teague headed towards the stage to congratulate the cast and give them his comments on the production, Paul Evans following behind him. The stage manager met them as they walked backstage, his face was clouded with worry.

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I’ve had to send for the doctor. Daniel and Robert had another slanging match just before the last act, and poor old Robert had a bit of a turn. I think it’s his heart.’

  ‘Oh, God, that’s all we need,’ Teague replied. ‘Where is he?’

  The stage manager led the way to the tiny cubicles, little more than fibreboard walls closed off by movable screens, which acted as primitive dressing rooms for the cast members. When they reached the one used by Robert Theobalds, they saw the doctor just emerging.

  ‘I’m so sorry, James,’ Doctor Hendricks said, ‘but the old boy’s passed away. He’s been dead about a quarter of an hour, at a rough guess. All the classic indications of a heart attack, though there’ll have to be a post-mortem, of course.’

  ‘Poor old Robert,’ Evans murmured.

  James Teague turned to the stage manager.

  ‘You’d better let the rest of the cast know,’ he said. ‘In fact, get them all up on stage and I’ll tell them myself.’

  ‘Would you like me to tell his wife?’ Hendricks asked.

  Teague nodded.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, John, yes. You know her much better than I do. Just let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

  The doctor had just turned to leave the hall when the stage manager shouted out to them.

  ‘James! Doctor Hendricks! Here, quickly!’

  The stage manager was standing onstage, staring at the wing chair and its occupant. Daniel was still sitting in it, still wearing the same look of frozen horror that James had seen on his face as the curtains had closed.

  ‘Daniel! Come on now. Snap out of it!’

  James reached out to shake the man, but Hendricks brushed him aside and bent forward to feel for the actor’s pulse. Then he straightened up slowly and shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, but he’s dead as well.’

  ‘Not another heart attack, surely? I mean, he’s a young man.’

  Hendricks shook his head again.

  ‘At the moment, I’ve no idea, but from the expression on his face he looks as if he’s had some kind of a seizure.’

  Suddenly James felt a tingle of superstitious fear, and the hairs on the back of his neck stirred as he remembered something. He turned to the stage manager.

  ‘Who played the ghost?’

  ‘Paul, of course. He’s the understudy.’

  ‘Did you tell him to go on?’

  ‘No, but I saw him waiting in the wings after Robert collapsed. And you saw the ghost walk across the stage, just as I did.’

  ‘Yes,’ said James, shaking his head. ‘That’s exactly what I saw, because Paul was sitting next to me in the hall during the whole play. Whoever – or whatever –walked across this stage at the end of the play wasn’t Paul.’

  ‘But – I mean, if it wasn’t Paul, who was it?’

  James gestured towards Daniel Park, and both men stared at the expression of utter terror on his face.

  ‘Just look at him. Who do you think it was?’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Hendricks demanded.

  ‘I’m saying,’ Teague responded, ‘that I think Daniel Park died of fright. Nothing more, nothing less. I always said old Robert really lived his parts. I think he decided that the show had to go on, and he wasn’t going to miss his cue just because he happened to be dead.’

  FOUR: SPIRIT OF JOY

  The silence and stillness were just as she remembered. The whole house seemed to exude an air quiet expectancy, the only sounds the faint creaking as the old timbers moved and settled minutely in the biting cold of the December night. She lay in her bed on one side of the nursery, tucked up cosily, nestling deep into the feather mattress, the covers pulled up tight against her chin. A smile of delicious anticipation creased her face. It was Christmas; the very best time of the year.

  All the gas lights had been extinguished by Mama, except for the one in the corner by the fireplace, in which the last embers from the afternoon’s fire still glowed faintly. But the gloom wasn't frightening: far from it, it lent an air of excitement and expectancy to the room. And, anyway, she knew why Mama and Papa liked to keep the room in darkness, especially at this time of year. She'd found out the previous Christmas, when she had suddenly and unexpectedly recognized the face of the gift-bringer who had entered the nursery on the stroke of midnight. It was Papa! Papa, who doted on her, who lived for her, and who still diligently enacted the legend of Santa Claus, just for her.

  She shivered slightly with anticipation. It must be almost midnight, nearly time for – Then her eyes snapped shut suddenly, as she heard the faint sound of a footstep outside her door and the almost simultaneous peal of the church clock in the village, striking twelve.

  She sensed as much as heard the stealthy movements at the foot of her bed, imagining Papa carefully positioning the presents on the occasional table. A sudden silence – she envisaged Papa staring down at her, a warm smile on his face as he listened to her breathing, probably wondering if she was really asleep or just pretending – then the unmistakable click of the latch as the nursery door closed.

  For a few delicious seconds she lay still, savouring the moment, then opened her eyes and leapt nimbly out of bed. She crossed swiftly to the fireplace, her eyes almost superstitiously averted from the table. She climbed onto a dining chair under the gas lamp and stretched up, rotating the control with the ease of much practice, watching the sudden increase in brightness as the gas hissed and flared. Only then did she turn and look.

  A peal of delighted laughter escaped her lips. A doll's house! And four, no, five dolls! A game with counters and a board! A tiny tea service! Dear, dear Papa! The best Christmas presents ever! She would be especially good now, doing absolutely everything she was told, and she would help Mama as much as she could. Oh, she could hardly wait for the morning to come!

  In the sitting room two floors below, the grey-haired woman sat suddenly still, and lowered the book she was reading onto her lap.

  ‘Listen,’ she murmured.

  Her husband looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Just after midnight,’ he said. ‘As usual.’

  ‘We've got to do something, John. I don't think I can spend another year in this house.’

  He nodded in resigned agreement, walked to the door
and switched on the main lights, then sat down again in his chair, using the remote control unit to increase the volume of the television set, trying to drown out the sound of girlish laughter and the pounding of running and skipping feet from the empty and deserted nursery upstairs.

  FIVE: THE UNINVITED GUEST

  It was early evening when he arrived.

  The pine trees that lined the driveway and stood in isolated groups in the fields close to the house bent and twisted as the ice-cold December wind whipped through them. Branch was driven against branch, and the few remaining cones tumbled and scattered. It had been snowing for hours, and the swirling sheets of flakes gusted and danced as they were blown almost horizontally. Drifts lay against the wooden fence-posts and the sides of the old house, and the drive wore a thick white carpet. Silent and isolated, but alive with light streaming through the ground floor windows, the house waited with the patience of ages.

  The slim, dark figure walked slowly and cautiously up the drive, for it was very slippery underfoot, his footfalls soundless and his footprints invisible in the driving snow. At the house he paused for a moment, as if in contemplation, then stepped up onto the porch, stamped his feet a few times to try to remove some of the snow, then seized the worn brass knocker, rapped firmly three times, and waited.

  After a minute or so he heard faint footsteps from within, then the porch lights flared into life and the wide polished oak door opened. A tall man wearing an old-fashioned double-breasted dinner jacket looked out enquiringly.

  The stranger stepped forward, a faint smile on his face.

  ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you, especially so near to Christmas, but I’ve had a bit of an accident. My car –’

  The man in the doorway nodded in understanding, and immediately beckoned the stranger inside.

  ‘Please come in. The roads round here can be very treacherous in winter, particularly that sharp bend at the bottom of the drive. The old oak there has claimed more than its fair share of cars. I’m afraid we have no telephone, but you’re more than welcome to what hospitality we can offer.’

  The stranger stepped inside, and the oak door slammed shut against the winter weather. The hall was warm and panelled in a dark and heavy wood, the carpet a deep red, and the wall lights emitted a golden glow. The contrast with the bleak and bitter cold outside could not have been more marked. From an open doorway to the right came the sound of voices and laughter, and the chink of cutlery on plates.

  The host gestured, and the stranger preceded him into the dining room. His thin coat, sodden and dripping, was hung up to dry beside the fire, and a welcome hot toddy was pressed into his hands. The Christmas table was already laid, candlelight gleaming on the silver cutlery, salvers piled high with chicken, turkey, beef, ham, potatoes and vegetables. Sauce boats steamed gently, and a number of cut glass decanters, dark with wine, stood like sentinels in a welcoming row down the centre of the table.

  About a dozen people – men and women, but no children, he noticed – were seated around the table, and all insisted that the stranger should join them. An extra guest was always welcome in the house – at Christmas, and in fact at any other time of the year. When he’d finished his drink, the stranger took his seat at the end of the table, where a spare place setting was already laid.

  ‘Are you expecting another guest?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not now,’ the host replied.

  The food was excellent, piping hot and beautifully cooked, served with a selection of wines of impeccable quality. The stranger knew his wines – he had once acted as a buyer for a small chain of wine shops – but he could identify none of them. He sipped a strong but delicious red with a puzzled frown, which the host noticed.

  ‘Is there something wrong with the wine?’ he asked.

  The stranger shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Quite the reverse. This is wonderful, but I simply don’t recognize it.’

  The host nodded and smiled.

  ‘I’d be quite surprised if you did. That’s a Château Lafite.’

  ‘Really?’ the stranger asked, surprise evident in his voice. ‘But I don’t –’

  ‘I know. It’s an old wine. You wouldn’t recognize that or any of the others, or not by taste, anyway. If I told you the names I’m sure you would know them, but all these are what you might call old stock.’ He smiled again, and then added; ‘in fact, none of these wines is less than about fifty years old.’

  The stranger raised his eyebrows, as he mentally calculated the cost of providing such quantities – there were five decanters of the red on the table and another half dozen or so bottles opened and waiting beside the fireplace – of wines of that age and undeniable quality.

  The meal was prolonged and convivial, the conversation lively and entertaining, and the stranger was made to feel completely at home. All of the guests insisted that he must stay the night. His car could be more easily recovered in the morning, for who would want to go out on such a night? With the constant, though muffled, howl of the wind at the windows to reinforce the argument, the stranger readily agreed.

  The last fragments of Christmas pudding were teased onto spoons and forks, the last of the wine savoured. Plates were pushed away and chairs eased back from the table. Pots of coffee arrived, along with delicate bone china cups and saucers. A handful of the diners produced cigarettes and cigars, and soon the air above the table wore a faint bluish tinge.

  ‘And now, sir,’ the host commanded, addressing the stranger, ‘perhaps you can tell us how you came to arrive here this evening.’

  ‘Gladly. I’d arranged a business meeting at a nearby hotel, and I was running slightly late. And that meant I was driving rather faster than I should have, in these conditions. As you’ve already mentioned, that’s a treacherous bend at the bottom of your drive, and I’m afraid the oak collected another victim tonight. I simply lost control on the bend and the car hit the tree pretty hard. I think the vehicle might be a write-off.’

  ‘Quite probably,’ the host agreed. ‘To my certain knowledge that tree has destroyed at least eight cars.’ He paused for a moment and glanced round the table. ‘Yes, at least eight,’ he repeated.

  ‘Is this a regular dinner party for you?’ the stranger asked. ‘I mean, are you all family, or just friends, or is this some special occasion?’

  The host glanced round again before replying.

  ‘Not exactly regular, but we get together once a year or so, whenever there’s a need. Whenever there’s a special occasion, as you put it. And we’re really all strangers, I suppose.’

  Most of the diners smiled at that remark, and two or three laughed.

  It was after midnight before they retired to the drawing room for hot mince pies and brandy. The roaring log fire was the sole illumination, save for a single candle at each end of the sideboard, and the flickering flames and dancing shadows lent an eerie quality to the room.

  The guests sat in easy chairs and large sofas around the fire, their faces turned ruddy by its glow and, as the brandy was passed from hand to hand and the trays of mince pies were eaten, they talked.

  They talked of Christmas past, and Christmas present, but never of the Christmas to come. They talked of shooting parties, and walks in the crisp snow on the moors. And of winters past and meals remembered. Of absent friends and dogs long dead. And, perhaps inevitably as the logs in the huge old fireplace crackled and spat, of those things perhaps better spoken of in daylight; of ghosts and spectres and hauntings.

  They talked of grey ladies, and headless horsemen, and of things not seen so much as sensed. Of noises in the night and chills in a warm room on a summer’s evening. Of things of prophecy and things of remembrance. Of benevolent spirits and things of mindless malevolence. Of kings long gone but present still. Of noises without cause and shapes without substance. And of the house.

  It was old, its walls having stood on the side of the hill for over half a millennium, and had been built upon foundations older still,
the history of the site stretching back into ages long forgotten, the host explained.

  ‘And is it haunted?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘That depends on what you mean by the word. For example, there’s a bedroom – a pleasant, light and airy room – in the east wing, where no-one ever sleeps and few want to linger. As far as I know, nobody has ever seen anything, but there’s a feeling about the room that makes people uncomfortable. But does that mean there’s a ghost or a presence in there? Who knows?’

  The host shrugged his shoulders.

  And the old gunroom at the back of the house was always cold, colder than reason would allow, though without known cause. But one had to expect such things, especially in a place as old as this.

  And while the talk ebbed and flowed about him, the stranger sat, and sipped his brandy, and said never a word.

  The flames grew smaller as the fire slowly died, and one by one the guests drifted away to their rooms, bidding sleepy farewells and goodnights to the host, with thanks for the excellence of the food and drink, and to the stranger, still sitting by the fire. Finally, only the two of them remained in the room: the stranger on one side of the fireplace, and the host upon the other.

  The candles on the sideboard guttered out their life, and as the host bent to the fire with a poker the final flickers of flame flared and then died, leaving only the glow of the embers. The host poured two more brandies, handed one to the stranger, and sat back, smiling faintly.

  ‘And you, sir. You have said almost nothing this evening. Do you believe in ghosts, or do you think them all just Christmas stories, tall tales to tell to friends?’

  The stranger swirled the brandy in the balloon glass, and passed it under his nose. He took a sip, and warmed the glass between his palms. Then he looked up and nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Yes, I do believe in ghosts.’