Gaslit Horror (20 page)

Night draws on. We are too weary—too dispirited to talk. I lie down, but not to sleep ... Time passes.

 

A ventilator rattles violently somewhere on the main deck, and there sounds constantly that slurring, gritty noise. Later I hear a cat's agonised howl, and then again all is quiet. Some time after comes a great splash alongside. Then, for some hours, all is silent as the grave. Occasionally I sit up on the chest and listen, yet never a whisper of noise comes to me. There is an absolute silence, even the monotonous creak of the gear has died away entirely, and at last a real hope is springing up within me. That splash, this silence—surely I am justified in hoping. I do not wake Joky this time. I will prove first for myself that all is safe. Still I wait. I will run no unnecessary risks. After a time I creep to the after-port and will listen; but there is no sound. I put up my hand and feel at the screw, then again I hesitate, yet not for long. Noiselessly I begin to unscrew the fastening of the heavy shield. It swings loose on its hinge, and I pull it back and peer out. My heart is beating madly. Everything seems strangely dark outside. Perhaps the moon has gone behind a cloud. Suddenly a beam of moonlight enters through the port, and goes as quickly. I stare out. Something moves. Again the light streams in, and now I seem to be looking into a great cavern, at the bottom of which quivers and curls something palely white.

My heart seems to stand still! It is the Horror! I start back and seize the iron port-flap to slam it to. As I do so, something strikes the glass like a steam ram, shatters it to atoms, and flicks past me into the berth. I scream and spring away. The port is quite filled with it. The lamp shows it dimly. It is curling and twisting here and there. It is as thick as a tree, and covered with a smooth slimy skin. At the end is a great claw, like a lobster's, only a thousand times larger. I cower down into the farthest corner.... It has broken the tool-chest to pieces with one click of those frightful mandibles. Joky has crawled under a bunk. The Thing sweeps round in my direction. I feel a drop of sweat trickle slowly down my face—it tastes salty. Nearer comes that awful death ... Crash! I roll over backwards. It has crushed the water breaker against which I leant, and I am rolling in the water across the floor. The claw drives up, then down, with a quick uncertain movement, striking the deck a dull, heavy blow, a foot from my head. Joky gives a little gasp of horror. Slowly the Thing rises and starts feeling its way round the berth. It plunges into a bunk and pulls out a bolster, nips it in half and drops it, then moves on. It is feeling along the deck. As it does so it comes across a half of the bolster. It seems to toy with it, then picks it up and takes it out through the port....

A wave of putrid air fills the berth. There is a grating sound, and something enters the port again—something white and tapering and set with teeth. Hither and thither it curls, rasping over the bunks, ceiling, and deck, with a noise like that of a great saw at work. Twice it flickers above my head, and I close my eyes. Then off it goes again. It sounds now on the opposite side of the berth and nearer to Joky. Suddenly the harsh, raspy noise becomes muffled, as though the teeth were passing across some soft substance. Joky gives a horrid little scream, that breaks off into a bubbling, whistling sound. I open my eyes. The tip of the vast tongue is curled tightly round something that drips, then is quickly withdrawn, allowing the moonbeams to steal again into the berth. I rise to my feet. Looking round, I note in a mechanical sort of way the wrecked state of the berth—the shattered chests, dismantled bunks, and something else—

“Joky!” I cry, and tingle all over.

There is that awful Thing again at the port. I glance round for a weapon. I will revenge Joky. Ah! there, right under the lamp, where the wreck of the carpenter's chest strews the floor, lies a small hatchet. I spring forward and seize it. It is small, but so keen—so keen! I feel its razor edge lovingly. Then I am back at the port. I stand to one side and raise my weapon. The great tongue is feeling its way to those fearsome remains. It reaches them. As it does so, with a scream of “Joky! Joky!” I strike savagely again and again and again, gasping as I strike; once more, and the monstrous mass falls to the deck, writhing like a hideous eel. A vast, warm flood rushes in through the porthole. There is a sound of breaking steel and an enormous bellowing. A singing comes in my ears and grows louder—louder. Then the berth grows indistinct and suddenly dark.

 

Extract from the log of the steamship
Hispaniola
.

June 24.—Lat.—N. Long.—W. 11 A.M.—Sighted four-masted barque about four points on the port bow, flying signal of distress. Ran down to her and sent a boat aboard. She proved to be the
Glen Doon,
homeward bound from Melbourne to London. Found things in a terrible state. Decks covered with blood and slime. Steel deck-house stove in. Broke open door, and discovered youth of about nineteen in last stage of inanition, also part remains of boy about fourteen years of age. There was a great quantity of blood in the place, and a huge curled-up mass of whitish flesh, weighing about half a ton, one end of which appeared to have been hacked through with a sharp instrument. Found forecastle door open and hanging from one hinge. Doorway bulged, as though something had been forced through. Went inside. Terrible state of affairs, blood everywhere, broken chests, smashed bunks, but no men nor remains. Went aft again and found youth showing signs of recovery. When he came round, gave the name of Thompson. Said they had been attacked by a huge serpent—thought it must have been sea-serpent. He was too weak to say much, but told us there were some men up the mainmast. Sent a hand aloft, who reported them lashed to the royal mast, and quite dead. Went aft to the cabin. Here we found the bulkhead smashed to pieces, and the cabin-door lying on the deck near the after-hatch. Found body of captain down lazarette, but no officers. Noticed amongst the wreckage part of the carriage of a small cannon. Came aboard again.

Have sent the second mate with six men to work her into port. Thompson is with us. He has written out his version of the affair. We certainly consider that the state of the ship, as we found her, bears out in every respect his story. (Signed)

William Norton (Master).
Tom Briggs (1st Mate).

In the autumn of the year 1900 I was staying at the isolated village of Knelby, which place, I need hardly inform the reader, is situated in the heart of the wild forest country known as Charnwood.

I have always had a decided weakness for antiquities, and it was, therefore, only natural that, on the day following my arrival at Knelby, I should take my way to the ancient church, which stands on a rocky eminence overlooking a precipitous and disused slate-quarry.

In the churchyard I found the sexton busily engaged in putting the final touches to a newly-dug grave. As I drew near, he came up the ladder from the depths where he had been working, and, after stretching himself, stood looking down at his handiwork with the air of one who has accomplished a hard task, and was satisfied.

He was a fine specimen of village manhood—tall, and broad in proportion; and although his white hair and beard indicated that he must be well advanced in years, his back was as straight as one of the spruce firs that fringed the churchyard in which he worked.

As he stood thus, gazing down into the grave at his feet, there was an expression of solemn thoughtfulness in his face, which betokened a mind not wholly engrossed with the doings of spade and pickaxe; while the height of his forehead and keenness of his eyes bespoke a more than ordinary intelligence.

Walking quietly over the grass, I reached the opposite side of the grave to the one on which he stood before he noticed my presence.

“Good-day, sir,” said he, touching his cap.

“Good-day,” I replied. “You are, or rather, have been busy, I see.”

“Yes, sir,” returned he. “I was just thinking, among other things, how many this one makes, and it's either sixty-eight or sixty-nine; but I can't be quite sure which, without referring to my figures at home.”

“You allude, I suppose, to the number of graves you have dug?”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I ask how long you have been sexton of Knelby?”

“It is forty years this very day, sir, since I was appointed.”

“Strange, that you should have had a grave to dig on the anniversary.”

“Very strange, sir; I have been thinking so, off and on, all the morning.”

“And during the forty years you have been sexton, you have probably buried every person who has died in the parish?”

“All but one, sir,” replied the sexton; and then, to my surprise, I noticed that he regarded me with an uneasy look, and evinced a desire to change the subject of our conversation.

“Perhaps you would like to look over the church, sir?” he said.

I replied that I was most anxious to do so, in fact, had come out with that intention; and so we moved off in the direction of the time-worn building, the sexton leading the way, while I followed, with the thought of the one parishoner, whose grave had not been dug by my guide, uppermost in my mind.

“You are staying at Knelby, pehaps, sir?” said the sexton, as he unlocked the ponderous door.

I replied that it was my intention to stay in the village for some weeks, in order that I might have perfect quietness and rest.

“You will certainly find our village quiet, sir,” rejoined the old man, as he threw open the door and bowed me courteously in.

As we entered, the sun was shining brightly through the ivy-clad windows, the movement of the leaves in the wind breaking the light into a hundred fantastic shapes, which quivered on the walls.

The chancel was a large one in proportion to the church, and in it there reposed in stony watchfulness, two knights in armour, with their ladies beside them; for the Androvil family, who still lived at the Hall, had been lords of the manor far back in the Middle Ages.

After looking for some time on the cold, expectant faces of these effigies, trying, as I did so, to make them live again in my imagination, I raised my eyes and noticed a small brass plate on the north wall of the chancel. Following a habit I have, I read aloud the following inscription:—

As I finished reading the inscription I turned round, and looking at the sexton, noticed the same half-fearful expression which had so impressed me at the side of the newly-made grave. I think as our eyes met, he saw the questioning look in mine, for, with a hasty remark about its being a long time ago, and best forgotten, he turned and led the way to another part of the church. But in spite of the interest I felt in a most perfect specimen of a cross-legged knight, I found my thoughts and eyes continually wandering to the brass tablet in the chancel, and I was not sorry when, after seeing everything worthy of notice, I found myself once more in the churchyard and the sunshine.

When we came to the grave I left the sexton to gather up his tools, and, walking across to the south side of the churchyard, seated myself on the low stone wall. It was then that I noticed for the first time a mournful-looking house, standing in somewhat extensive grounds, and surrounded by trees—most of which were ancient yews of gigantic growth.

Surely, thought I, this must be the rectory, and yet I marvelled to see that it was in a state of utter neglect and decay, as though it had been unoccupied for many years. The windows were close-shuttered, except in the case of one in the upper storey, where a shutter had in some way become loose and hung by a single hinge, creaking in the wind. One end of the house was covered with ivy, which, unchecked by the pruner's knife, had overgrown itself, and now waved its long tendrils above the chimney stack like the arms of some mighty octopus feeling for its prey. Truly this ancient and deserted house was the most eerie one I had ever seen.

I am of a decidedly imaginative temperament, and at once began to indulge in all sorts of wild fancies to account for the gloomy scene before me.

My reverie was broken by the sound of a footstep at my side, and, looking up, I found the sexton standing beside me, his spade and pickaxe over his shoulder, and his gaze fixed on the lifeless old house which had so fascinated me.

“Is that the rectory?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” replied the sexton, “or rather it still goes by that name, although no rector has lived there these thirty years.”

“Indeed,” replied I, “that is singular, for although the house has evidently fallen into great decay through neglect, it still bears evidence of having once been a pleasant and commodious residence; besides which, the grounds are extensive and beautiful, and the close situation of the rectory to the church must have been extremely convenient.”

“Yes, sir,” rejoined the sexton, “I daresay you're right in your way of looking at it, but I happen to know that there were good reasons for the rector refusing to live there.”

“Reasons!” I exclaimed, my curiosity now thoroughly awakened by the mysterious tone of my informant's voice. “It must, indeed, have been a very strong reason that could drive a man from a spot like this to new surroundings and a new house.”

The sexton seated himself on the wall beside me, and lowering his voice to a solemn whisper, said:—

“The reason, sir, was one that would have driven a man from any house, even though the surroundings were like Paradise. Sir, the house you are looking at is haunted.”

“Haunted!” I exclaimed, in an incredulous and bantering tone. “By what?”

The sexton drew closer to me, and looking round with an air of one who was half-fearful of being overheard, whispered in my ear:—“By a woman, sir—an old and ghastly woman—who walks the house at dead of night with a lighted candle in her hand.”

“But, surely,” said I, “you do not believe in such a foolish tale as that. It must be one of those village superstitions, which one finds handed down from generation to generation in all remote country districts; and most probably the rector's reasons for removing to a new house was that he might have the benefit of more modern conveniences; for certainly yonder house is very ancient.”

But the sexton passed over unheeded the latter part of my speech, and replied in even more set and solemn tones than before:—

“Sir, it is no foolish tale, for I, who now speak to you, have met the woman face to face.”

Even had I felt so inclined, I could not, looking into the old man's face as he uttered these words, have made light of them.

“Pray tell me all about it,” I said eagerly, placing my hand upon his arm.

“Sir,” he replied, “I have told no one for many years, and even now when I think of it, all the horror of that night comes back upon me, making me tremble like an aspen leaf; but as you have shown such interest in the matter, I will do my best to tell you the story, asking you to excuse me if I am unable to finish it.”

Having said this, the sexton sat for some moments gazing in absorbed silence on the eerie scene before us; then, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, as though bracing himself for a great effort, he thus began:—

“First of all, sir, I must tell you that my name is William Harness, and that I have lived in Knelby all my life, succeeding my father as sexton forty years ago. I was then a young man of about thirty-two, and had, up to the time of entering upon my new duties, been in the service of the rector for over ten years as coachman and gardener; but it was always an understood thing that I should follow my father in the sextonship, that office having been in our family for many generations; and though it may seem hard and strange to you, sir, I began my new duties by digging my father's grave; this, too, being an understood thing in our family, my father having done the same in the case of my grandfather, and so on right back for nearly one hundred and fifty years.

“In the year 1858, two years before I became sexton, a mysterious event happened which cast a gloom and horror over the whole district.

“There lived with the then rector, who was childless, his niece, a Miss Howard, the tablet to whose memory you saw in the church this morning. She was as good as she was beautiful, and was beloved by everyone in the parish, from the highest to the lowest. Her time was spent in doing good, and her sunny face and cheery voice brought happiness and gladness wherever she went. Needless to say that she was worshipped by the old rector and his wife, of whose home she was the life and light. Judge, then, of our dismay when the news spread one dark December morning that Miss Howard had disappeared. As she did not make her appearance at breakfast, a servant was sent to her room, when it was found that the door was open, and that she had evidently left her bed during the night.

“The old rector and his wife were nearly frantic, and I can truly say that I was hardly less affected, for Miss Howard had been my dearest friend, and many a long talk we had had together.

“During the whole day the rector and myself led search parties, beating every part of the country for miles around; but all to no purpose—we found not a trace of the missing one; and although the search was continued day after day for more than a week, all our efforts ended in failure and despair; so that we had, at last, to face the awful fact that our dear young friend had gone from us for ever. It was the rector's death-blow, and ere a year had passed away we laid him to rest in the churchyard, whither, within a few weeks, he was followed by his sorrowing wife.

“And here I must tell you that for some years a tale had been rife in the village—of the rectory being haunted by an old woman, who walked the house at night with a lighted candle in her hand. Several of the servants vowed that they had seen her, and had refused to stay in consequence; and, moreover, the rector, shortly before he died, had confided in me that he had also met her, when one night, being unable to sleep, he had gone down to his study to read.

“I shall never forget how the old man's face went ashy pale as he told me how the woman came upon him suddenly as he sat reading; how hideous was her face, and how she beckoned to him to follow her. But at that sight he swooned away, and knew no more until he found himself in bed, with his wife bending anxiously over him.

“He, however, desired that I would not speak of this to anyone, for fear of strengthening a story that he had always ridiculed as foolish and superstitious. And, indeed, when I considered the shattered state of his health since the disappearance of his niece, and being moreover myself a decided disbeliever in ghosts of any kind—I say, when I considered these things, I readily came to the conclusion that the old man's senses had deceived him, and that he had seen nothing.

“I was, however, soon to find how greatly in error I had been in coming to this hasty conclusion.

“In the spring of the year 1860 our new rector settled among us, taking up his residence at the old rectory; and I continued to occupy the same position I had done in the time of his predecessor; for I knew well the ways of both house and garden, and could be relied upon to do my best for my new master.

“So the spring and summer ran on to autumn, when my father died, and, as I have already told you, the duties of sexton and grave-digger fell to my lot. But my new employment, though it occupied a great part of my time, did not take me wholly out of the rector's private service, and I continued to work a day or two each week on his garden. It was one morning in the early spring of 1865 that the rector came to me, as I was engaged in pruning some rose trees, and after greeting me as was his wont, said:—

“‘William, you will be sorry to hear that Mrs. Rennard is so poorly that the doctor has ordered me to take her away at once for a complete change of scene. I have, therefore, decided to start tomorrow, and to close the rectory, taking the two children and servants with us.'

“I told him how sorry I was to hear it, but hoped the change and rest would soon pull Mrs. Rennard round again. Then, not knowing what more to say, I continued my work, thinking that the rector would pass on; but as he did not do so I looked round, and was surprised to find that he was eyeing me in an anxious way, and tapping the ground uneasily with his stick, as though there was something more which he wished to say, and yet did not know how to begin.