The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack

by Elliott O'Donnell

  In the course of a conversation, that was at all events interesting to me, I adroitly managed to introduce the subject of ghosts—then, as ever, uppermost in my thoughts.

  * * * *

  Well, he said, I can tell you of something rather extraordinary that my mother used to say happened to a friend of hers at Glamis. I have no doubt you are well acquainted with the hackneyed stories in connection with the hauntings at the castle; for example, Earl Beardie playing cards with the Devil, and The Weeping Woman without Hands or Tongue. You can read about them in scores of books and magazines. But what befel my mother’s friend, whom I will call Mrs. Gibbons—for I have forgotten her proper name—was apparently of a novel nature. The affair happened shortly before Mrs. Gibbons died, and I always thought that what took place might have been, in some way, connected with her death.

  She had driven over to the castle one day—during the absence of the owner—to see her cousin, who was in the employ of the Earl and Countess. Never having been at Glamis before, but having heard so much about it, Mrs. Gibbons was not a little curious to see that part of the building, called the Square Tower, that bore the reputation of being haunted.

  Tactfully biding an opportunity, she sounded her relative on the subject, and was laughingly informed that she might go anywhere about the place she pleased, saving to one spot, namely, “Bluebeard’s Chamber”; and there she could certainly never succeed in poking her nose, as its locality was known only to three people, all of whom were pledged never to reveal it. At the commencement of her tour of inspection, Mrs. Gibbons was disappointed—she was disappointed in the Tower. She had expected to see a gaunt, grim place, crumbling to pieces with age, full of blood-curdling, spiral staircases, and deep, dark dungeons; whereas everything was the reverse. The walls were in an excellent state of preservation—absolutely intact; the rooms bright and cheerful and equipped in the most modern style; there were no dungeons, at least none on view, and the passages and staircases were suggestive of nothing more alarming than—bats! She was accompanied for some time by her relative, but, on the latter being called away, Mrs. Gibbons continued her rambles alone. She had explored the lower premises, and was leisurely examining a handsomely furnished apartment on the top floor, when, in crossing from one side of the room to the other, she ran into something. She looked down—nothing was to be seen. Amazed beyond description, she thrust out her hands, and they alighted on an object, which she had little difficulty in identifying. It was an enormous cask or barrel lying in a horizontal position.

  She bent down close to where she felt it, but she could see nothing—nothing but the well-polished boards of the floor. To make sure again that the barrel was there, she gave a little kick—and drew back her foot with a cry of pain. She was not afraid—the sunshine in the room forbade fear—only exasperated. She was certain a barrel was there—that it was objective—and she was angry with herself for not seeing it. She wondered if she were going blind; but the fact that other objects in the room were plainly visible to her, discountenanced such an idea. For some minutes she poked and jabbed at the Thing, and then, seized with a sudden and uncontrollable panic, she turned round and fled. And as she tore out of the room, along the passage and down the seemingly interminable flight of stairs, she heard the barrel behind her in close pursuit-bump—bump—bump!

  At the foot of the staircase Mrs. Gibbons met her cousin, and, as she clutched the latter for support, the barrel shot past her, still continuing its descent—bump—bump—bump! (though the steps as far as she could see had ended)—till the sounds gradually dwindled away in the far distance.

  Whilst the manifestations lasted, neither Mrs. Gibbons nor her cousin spoke; but the latter, as soon as the sounds had ceased, dragged Mrs. Gibbons away, and, in a voice shaking with terror, cried: “Quick, quick—don’t, for Heaven’s sake, look round—worse has yet to come.” And, pulling Mrs. Gibbons along in breathless haste, she unceremoniously hustled her out of the Tower.

  “That was no barrel!” Mrs. Gibbons’s cousin subsequently remarked by way of explanation. “I saw it—I have seen it before. Don’t ask me to describe it. I dare not—I dare not even think of it. Whenever it appears, a certain thing happens shortly afterwards. Don’t, don’t on any account say a word about it to any one here.” And Mrs. Gibbons, my mother told me, came away from Glamis a thousand times more curious than she was when she went.

  * * * *

  The last story I have to relate is one I heard many years ago, when I was staying near Balmoral. A gentleman named Vance, with strong antiquarian tastes, was staying at an inn near the Strathmore estate, and, roaming abroad one afternoon, in a fit of absent-mindedness entered the castle grounds. It so happened—fortunately for him—that the family were away, and he encountered no one more formidable than a man he took to be a gardener, an uncouth-looking fellow, with a huge head covered with a mass of red hair, hawk-like features, and high cheek-bones, high even for a Scot. Struck with the appearance of the individual, Mr. Vance spoke, and, finding him wonderfully civil, asked whether, by any chance, he ever came across any fossils, when digging in the gardens.

  “I dinna ken the meaning of fossils,” the man replied. “What are they?”

  Mr. Vance explained, and a look of cunning gradually pervaded the fellow’s features. “No!” he said, “I’ve never found any of those things, but if you’ll give me your word to say nothing about it, I’ll show you something I once dug up over yonder by the Square Tower.”

  “Do you mean the Haunted Tower?—the Tower that is supposed to contain the secret room?” Mr. Vance exclaimed.

  An extraordinary expression—an expression such as Mr. Vance found it impossible to analyse—came into the man’s eyes. “Yes! that’s it!” he nodded. “What people call—and rightly call—the Haunted Tower. I got it from there. But don’t you say naught about it!”

  Mr. Vance, whose curiosity was roused, promised, and the man, politely requesting him to follow, led the way to a cottage that stood near by, in the heart of a gloomy wood. To Mr. Vance’s astonishment the treasure proved to be the skeleton of a hand—a hand with abnormally large knuckles, and the first joint—of both fingers and thumb—much shorter than the others. It was the most extraordinarily shaped hand Mr. Vance had ever seen, and he did not know in the least how to classify it. It repelled, yet interested him, and he eventually offered the man a good sum to allow him to keep it. To his astonishment the money was refused. “You may have the thing, and welcome,” the fellow said. “Only, I advise you not to look at it late at night; or just before getting into bed. If you do, you may have bad dreams.”

  “I will take my chance of that!” Mr. Vance laughed. “You see, being a hard-headed cockney, I am not superstitious. It is only you Highlanders, and your first cousins the Irish, who believe nowadays in bogles, omens, and such-like”; and, packing the hand carefully in his knapsack, Mr. Vance bid the strange-looking creature good morning, and went on his way.

  For the rest of the day the hand was uppermost in his thoughts—nothing had ever fascinated him so much. He sat pondering over it the whole evening, and bedtime found him still examining it—examining it upstairs in his room by candlelight. He had a hazy recollection that some clock had struck twelve, and he was beginning to feel that it was about time to retire, when, in the mirror opposite him, he caught sight of the door—it was open.

  “By Jove! that’s odd!” he said to himself. “I could have sworn I shut and bolted it.” To make sure, he turned round—the door was closed. “An optical delusion,” he murmured; “I will try again.”

  He looked into the mirror—the door reflected in it was—open. Utterly at a loss to know how to explain the phenomenon, he leaned forward in his seat to examine the glass more carefully, and as he did so he gave a start. On the threshold of the doorway was a shadow—black and bulbous. A cold shiver ran down Mr. Vance’s spine, and just for a moment he felt
afraid, terribly afraid; but he quickly composed himself—it was nothing but an illusion—there was no shadow there in reality—he had only to turn round, and the thing would be gone. It was amusing—entertaining. He would wait and see what happened.

  The shadow moved. It moved slowly through the air like some huge spider, or odd-shaped bird. He would not acknowledge that there was anything sinister about it—only something droll—excruciatingly droll. Yet it did not make him laugh. When it had drawn a little nearer, he tried to diagnose it, to discover its material counterpart in one of the objects around him; but he was obliged to acknowledge his attempts were failures—there was nothing in the room in the least degree like it. A vague feeling of uneasiness gradually crept over him—was the thing the shadow of something with which he was familiar, but could not just then recall to mind—something he feared—something that was sinister? He struggled against the idea, he dismissed it as absurd; but it returned—returned, and took deeper root as the shadow drew nearer. He wished the house was not quite so silent—that he could hear some indication of life—anything—anything for companionship, and to rid him of the oppressive, the very oppressive, sense of loneliness and isolation.

  Again a thrill of terror ran through him.

  “Look here!” he exclaimed aloud, glad to hear the sound of his own voice. “Look here! if this goes on much longer I shall begin to think I’m going mad. I have had enough, and more than enough, of magic mirrors for one night—it’s high time I got into bed.” He strove to rise from his chair—to move; he was unable to do either; some strange, tyrannical force held him a prisoner.

  A change now took place in the shadow; the blurr dissipated, and the clearly defined outlines of an object—an object that made Mr. Vance perfectly sick with apprehension—slowly disclosed themselves. His suspicions were verified—it was the Hand!—the hand—no longer skeleton, but covered with green, mouldering flesh—feeling its way slyly and stealthily towards him—towards the back of his chair! He noted the murderous twitching of its short, flat finger-tips, the monstrous muscles of its hideous thumb, and the great, clumsy hollows of its clammy palm. It closed in upon him; its cold, slimy, detestable skin touched his coat—his shoulder—his neck—his head! It pressed him down, squashed, suffocated him! He saw it all in the glass—and then an extraordinary thing happened. Mr. Vance suddenly became animated. He got up and peeped furtively round. Chairs, bed, wardrobe, had all disappeared—so had the bedroom—and he found himself in a small, bare, comfortless, queerly constructed apartment without a door, and with only a narrow slit of a window somewhere near the ceiling.

  He had in one of his hands a knife with a long, keen blade, and his whole mind was bent on murder. Creeping stealthily forward, he approached a corner of the room, where he now saw, for the first time—a mattress—a mattress on which lay a huddled-up form. What the Thing was—whether human or animal—Mr. Vance did not know—did not care—all he felt was that it was there for him to kill—that he loathed and hated it—hated it with a hatred such as nothing else could have produced. Tiptoeing gently up to it, he bent down, and, lifting his knife high above his head, plunged it into the Thing’s body with all the force he could command.

  * * * *

  He recrossed the room, and found himself once more in his apartment at the inn. He looked for the skeleton hand—it was not where he had left it—it had vanished. Then he glanced at the mirror, and on its brilliantly polished surface saw—not his own face—but the face of the gardener, the man who had given him the hand! Features, colour, hair—all—all were identical—wonderfully, hideously identical—and as the eyes met his, they smiled—devilishly.

  * * * *

  Early the next day, Mr. Vance set out for the spinney and cottage; they were not to be found—nobody had ever heard of them. He continued his travels, and some months later, at a loan collection of pictures in a gallery in Edinburgh, he came to an abrupt—a very abrupt—halt, before the portrait of a gentleman in ancient costume. The face seemed strangely familiar—the huge head with thick, red hair—the hawk-like features—the thin and tightly compressed lips. Then, in a trice, it all came back to him: the face he looked at was that of the uncouth gardener—the man who had given him the hand. And to clinch the matter, the eyes—leered.

  THE SORCERY CLUB (Part 1)

  Originally published in 1912.

  CHAPTER I

  HOW THEY FIRST HEARD OF ATLANTIS

  Rain is responsible for a great deal more than the mere growth of vegetables—it is a controller, if a somewhat capricious controller, of man’s destiny. It was mainly, if not entirely, owing to rain that the French lost the Battle of Agincourt; whilst, if I mistake not, Confucius alone knows how many victories have been snatched from the Chinese by the same factor.

  It was most certainly rain that drove Leon Hamar to take refuge in a second-hand bookshop; for so deep-rooted was his aversion to any literature saving a financial gazette or the stock and shares column of a daily, that nothing would have induced him to get within touching distance of a book save the risk of a severe wetting. Now, to his unutterable disgust, he found himself surrounded by the things he loathed. Books ancient—very ancient, judging by their bindings—and modern—histories, biographies, novels and magazines—anything from ten dollars to five cents, and all arrayed with most laudable tact according to their bulk and condition. But Hamar was neither to be tempted nor mollified. He frowned at one and all alike, and the colossal edition of Miss Somebody or Other’s poems—that by reason of its magnificent cover of crimson and gold occupied a most prominent position—met with the same vindictive reception as the tattered and torn volumes of Whittier stowed away in an obscure corner.

  Backing still further into the entrance of the store for a better protection from the rain, which, now falling heavier and heavier, was blown in by the wind, Hamar collided with a stand of books, with the result that one of them fell with a loud bang on the pavement.

  A man, evidently the owner of the store, and unmistakably a Jew, instantly appeared. Picking up the book, and wiping it with a dirty handkerchief, he thrust it at Hamar.

  “See!” he said, “you have damaged this property of mine. You must either buy it or give me adequate compensation.”

  “What!” Hamar cried, “compensation for such rubbish as that? Why all your books together are not worth five dollars. Indeed I’ve seen twice as many sold at a sale for half that amount. You can’t Jew me!”

  The two men eyed each other quizzically.

  “Perhaps,” the owner of the store observed slowly, “perhaps some of your ancestors were once Yiddish. In which case there ought to be a bond of sympathy between us. You may have that book for a nickel. What, no! Your cheeks are hollow, your fingers thin. A nickel is too much for you. I will take your chain in exchange.”

  “And leave me the watch!” Hamar retorted, with a grim smile. “You are a philanthropist—not a storekeeper.”

  “I should leave you nothing!” the Jew laughed.

  “There’s no watch there! See!” and he pointed to the concave surface of the watch-pocket. “I noticed its absence at once. It’s been keeping you alive for some days past. I’ll give you four dollars on the chain—and you may have the book!”

  “The book’s no good to me!” Hamar grunted. “The money is. Here! hand me over the four dollars and you can have the chain. It’s eighteen carat gold and worth at least ten dollars.”

  “Then why not take it to some one who will give you ten dollars!” sneered the Jew. “Because you know better. You’re no greenhorn. That chain is fifteen carat at the most, and there’s not a man in this city who would give you more than four dollars for it.”

  “Very well, then!” Hamar said sulkily. “I agree. No! the money first.”

  The Jew dived deep down into his trouser pocket, and, after foraging about for some seconds, produced a handful of
greasy coins, out of which he carefully selected the sum named.

  Hamar, who had been watching him greedily, grabbed the coins, bit them with his teeth, and rang them on the counter. With an air of relief he then slipped his watch-chain into the outstretched palm before him, remarked upon the fact that the rain had suddenly ceased, and prepared to take his departure.

  “Here’s the book!” the Jew ejaculated, whilst his face became suffused with a smirk. “Don’t go without it. Now! there’s no knowing but what we may not have further dealings with one another. I’m a money-lender—I’ve a place down-stairs—I take all sorts of things—all sorts of things. On the strict Q.T. mind. Sabez!”

  In another moment Hamar found himself standing on the wet pavement, nursing the four dollars in his waistcoat pocket with one hand, and mechanically clutching the despised volume with the other. Had he ever acted upon impulse, he would most certainly have hurled the book into the gutter; but on second thoughts he came to the conclusion that it would be better to dispose of it less obstrusively.

  It was now evening, and having tasted nothing since mid-day, he realized, for at least the hundredth time that week, that he was hungry. The touch of the dollars, however, only made him smile. He could eat his full for twenty-five cents and yet live well for another four days. And, besides, he still had a tie-pin and a fur coat. He might get a dollar on the one and two, if not two and a half, on the other; which would carry him through till the end of the week when something else might turn up—something which would not involve too hard work and would just keep him clear of jail. He turned sharply down Montgomery Street, crossed Kearney Street, and slipped noiselessly through the side doorway of a restaurant, in a suspicious-looking alley, not a hundred yards distant from the gorgeously illuminated Palace Hotel. Here, within five minutes, he was served with as good a meal as one could get in San Francisco for the money—and if the table linen was not as clean as it might have been, the food was not a whit the less excellent for that. At least so Hamar thought; and it was not until there was nothing left to eat that he left off eating. When he thought no one was looking in his direction, he popped the despised book under his chair and rose to go. Before he had gone ten yards, however, one of the waiters came running after him.